


Lost in Reality

by seedee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character of Color, Drugs, Grief, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-09
Updated: 2010-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seedee/pseuds/seedee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is <i>not</i> real?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

First Glimpse

Lee arrived at the little hut in the middle of nowhere just after dusk. He hesitated before entering, staring at the rough wood, noticing the light spilling out through the cracks between the boards. He heard laughter and was torn between wanting to go inside to join in, and wanting to turn around and go back home, burying his head under his pillow and sleeping everything away. There was no one else who'd come, though, and not enough time in one life to sleep this mess away.

He opened the door, taking in the familiar scene and smiling despite himself. Candles cast a cozy and warm light. They painted shadows on the walls and gave the whole room a soft glow.

"There you are," Fred said, still half laughing from something George had said. "We've been waiting for ages. Sit down and have a drink."

"Pining, really," George added and looked at Lee with a hesitant sort of smile.

"I'm sure you were." Lee entered the small room, closing the door behind himself. He went over to the battered couch where both of the twins were sitting with their feet propped up on the lopsided coffee table. It had seen better times - so had Lee. He ran his hand over his head and tugged at the band that held his dreads at his nape until they came free and framed - half hid - his face.

"Stay for a bit," George said.

Lee sat down on the only chair in the room. None of them said a word during the long moments of heavy silence.

"How was your day?" Fred asked eventually, making a face and taking a deep pull from a bottle of ale. "Why so somber?"

Lee shrugged. "The usual."

Fred grinned. "Here we are, young, handsome, talented, on a mission and... gloomy? Not on." He grabbed an unopened bottle from the floor next to the sofa and tossed it to Lee who caught it easily. "Be reasonable and drown your sorrows. Catch up, man."

Lee used the seat of his chair to open the bottle, not bothering to pick up the cap that fell to the floor. The ale was bitter and strong, and Lee was surprised at how good it tasted. He relaxed. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"World domination," Fred said. "I think the three of us could make it work."

Lee nodded and took another swig of his ale. George was smiling, leaning against his brother who looked at them puzzled.

"You two are like sacks full of potatoes tonight," Fred said. "Sluggish, knobbly in all the wrong places and no fun at all."

George shook his head, laughing; it didn't sound true. "There are places where knobbles are acceptable?" Then he raised his hands. "Don't answer that." He looked over at Lee and sobered visibly. "Have some fun, mate."

"I'm thoroughly enjoying myself," Lee muttered in response and emptied his beer in one long pull. He pressed his fingers against his closed eyes for a moment before he continued to speak. "How long are you going to keep this up, George?" he asked and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper.

"Don't," George said. "Not now."

"Oh yes. Now's exactly the time. Come on, George, talk. What exactly are you doing here?" Lee looked over at Fred. It wasn't Fred's fault, but sometimes Lee couldn't help blaming him. The guilt that always came with that train of thought was like a constant sting high in his chest.

"That's not fair," George said in a low voice.

"Oh really?" Lee asked. "Welcome to the real world."

"Fuck off, Jordan."

Fred was silent and looking at them as if waiting for someone to tell him what to say. Lee snorted. He was sick of it. "Let's go," he said.

"Where to?" George asked.

"Let's go," Lee repeated. "You can't stay here. You'll have to go back."

"To Aunt Muriel's?"

"Oh, fuck you, George. Stop it."

Fred finally got up from the sofa. He was frowning and narrowed his eyes. "What's up with you?" he asked Lee. "Is there a reason you're talking to him like that?"

"Shut up," Lee said.

"Don't you dare or-" George started, his wand raised.

"Or what?" Lee interrupted. "Are you going to hex me? Go ahead. I'm sure that'll make everything better."

George looked at him for long moments before he muttered a spell. The room lost its colour slowly; it disappeared into darkness. "You're not helping, Lee," was the last thing he heard before the familiar feeling of disorientation set in.

Lee held his breath as always and waited until the sensation of spinning was gone. The sight of the WWW workroom didn't calm him. He'd loved the clutter of magical objects, the different sized cauldrons with different coloured potions bubbling merrily in them and the shelves full of ingredients and half-finished products. That's how it had been _before_. Now it was dark and dusty with only one cauldron heated.

"You have to stop doing this," Lee said as George was about to leave the room.

George turned around. Dark circles were under his eyes, his shoulders were hanging, his hair was unkempt. "Who are you, Jordan?" he asked, the words harsh and stinging. "You don't look like my mother or my father or anyone else who has a right to judge me."

 _I'm your best friend,_ Lee thought, but didn't say it out loud. He watched him leave and banged his fist against the table, wincing at the pain. A small vial moved on the surface with a soft clinking sound. Lee caught it before it rolled off the edge. It had been filled with the advanced daydream potion that George took to escape his life more often than was good for him. And it was the same vial that Lee had refilled to follow him.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

gone . one

It was one of the bad days. Lee knew it the moment he entered George's flat. The place reeked of it.

He opened the windows, letting in cool January air, using his wand to blow it into the corners of the room. It wasn't the prominent smell of alcohol that was the worst, and he didn't mind unwashed dishes - they at least meant that George had been eating. It was the staleness that lingered in the air.

Both bottles on the coffee table had the black Ogden's label. They were as empty as the rest of the flat. Lee went down to the shop that had seen no customers since the day Fred and George had gone into hiding. It was dark and dusty, with Wheezes on the shelves that wouldn't work any more because they were too old. Shortly after the battle George had said that it was the shop of a dead man. Back then, Lee had thought George meant Fred; now he wasn't so sure.

He opened the door to the room where the twins had brewed potions, charmed objects and developed products. It was the only room down here that was still used frequently. George was there. He lay still and pale on the violently coloured sofa, looking young and thin, his face for once relaxed and without the creases that it showed most of the time these days.

"What've you done this time?" Lee asked his unconscious friend.

He closed the distance between them and brushed a strand of dirty hair off George's face. There was no reaction. Lee put his hand on George's chest and felt him breathing slowly, felt his heart beat. He wondered how many times he'd have to check if his best friend was still alive before he went insane, but figured he hadn't reached the point yet.

Lee rubbed his own tired eyes. "You stupid fuck. When will you finally-" Realising that he was talking to himself, he broke off mid-sentence and gave himself a mental shove.

There was an empty vial still in George's hand, and the distinct smell of the potion he'd used confirmed what Lee had suspected since he'd come down the stairs. A few green drops were left in the small glass bottle. Lee took it and refilled it with the experimental solution George used to escape into a world that was half memory, half wish, then added a few drops of 'Buddy Binding'. He knew exactly how much he needed of each; he'd done it more than a few times already.

When it was done, he held the vial against the lit tip of his wand to check the colour. Twice Lee had already ended up in a nightmare of blood and monsters instead of in the midst of George's vision. He had no wish to repeat that ever again. It looked like the correct shade of green, though, therefore he sat down on the floor, leaning with his back against the sofa.

"Cheers," he said, took George's hand in his own and downed the hallucinogenic mixture. When the room went dark, and he felt his stomach protest at the dizziness, Lee hoped for the best, concentrating on George, imagining his face and voice, and visualising the friendship that was currently fragile, but still intact.

The dizziness disappeared gradually, and he found himself on a clearing close to the hut. Lee heard George's voice and then spotted him lying in the thick grass not too far away. Fred was there as well. Or was it the memory of Fred? A Fred-shaped fantasy? Lee didn't know.

He went over and sat down. Fred grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "George said you were off on a secret mission."

Lee ignored him. "How long?" he asked George.

He waited for an answer but there was only silence. George lips were pressed together in a thin white line and the tension in his shoulders was obvious.

"Fred, can you get us a couple of ales?" George asked.

Fred frowned and leaned over to exchange a few words with his brother. Lee heard only part of the conversation, and didn't try to catch the rest of it. They seemed to come to an agreement, and Fred got up, starting to walk towards the hut. It wasn't something Fred would have done - not the real one. "Your world, your rules," Lee commented.

"Fuck off," George said. "Why do you do this? Why do you come here?"

Lee shrugged. "Because I can. And because someone has to. How long have you been here?"

"Why do you care? What's it to you?"

"Why I care?" The urge to slap some sense into him was so strong that Lee's fingers twitched. "Can you really look at me and ask me _why I care_?"

George deflated visibly, but didn't break eye contact. "Just leave me for a bit, yeah? No harm to anyone. People read books or play Quidditch or go fuck someone they don't even know. I hang out with Fred."

"It's harm to you. How long have you been here?"

"I don't know," George said. "Time's different here. You know that."

Lee didn't know what to say and waited for George to do something. But George didn't move and didn't speak. After long minutes of silence that wasn't as comfortable as it used to be, Lee reached over and smacked George lightly on the back of his head. "Let's go back and have a drink. Got to tell you about my latest date."

George snorted. "Don't tell me you hooked up with that loser again."

"He's no loser," Lee said indignantly, even though, in all honesty, he was.

"Where's Fred?" George asked, changing the topic so suddenly that Lee needed a moment to catch on.

"You sent him away."

George got up from the grass and looked toward the hut. "He should be back by now. Where is he?"

"Relax," Lee said and got up as well. "He's not real, remember?" Lee touched George's upper arm to get his attention.

George turned around, pushing Lee back with a hard shove. "I know that. Now where is he?" He didn't wait for an answer but took off towards the hut.

"Hey, wait!" Lee followed him, matching George's stride easily with his longer legs. "Why don't we go back?" He stumbled over a log and cursed this world that didn't even exist. Except that it _did_. The smell was real, the feel of it was real, the noises, the colour, _everything_. It was the most amazing and scary thing the twins had ever come up with. When Fred had died, it had still been in an experimental stage, therefore George was the only one who'd ever used it - with Lee as an unwanted passenger.

They went inside the gloomy cottage that had only two small windows. It smelled of dirt and old socks, sunlight illuminated the dust that was floating in the air. One look was enough to see that it was empty.

"Where the hell did he go?" George asked, turning around to look at Lee.

"I don't see why it matters. He's gone. We'll go back."

"You don't see a problem here?"

"I see plenty of problems," Lee replied. "But none of them are directly related to the fact that your brother has escaped from your daydream."

"Yeah," George said. "You wouldn't."

Lee didn't know what to say and even less what to do. George looked around as if he'd be able to find Fred just by staring hard enough at the corners of the hut. And why not? It was George's dream, after all. "Shouldn't you be able to call him? Or something?" Lee finally asked.

George let out a harsh breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "So you _do_ see a problem. Ten points to Jordan for pointing out the obvious."

Lee sat down on the bed, causing more dust to rise. "Look," he said with a calm voice. "What you're doing is not healthy. The person that was here is not Fred. Get mad at me as much as you want to. I'm shit at talking, and you're even worse, but it's not working that way. It's been the better part of a year, nothing has changed, and I'm sick of it. We need to go back and deal with this. We as in you and me because I'm not going away. Accept this if nothing else."

George shot him an amused look. "Done patronising? Where'd you get that lovely tan, mummy?"

Lee groaned and then tried a different approach. "You probably were piss drunk when you brewed the potion. We're lucky that we're still alive. I resent you for making me follow you every damn time, but I'm stubborn enough to stick around. You will not have any kind of fun no matter if Fred comes back or not as long as I'm here, and you can't make me go back without ending the hallucination." He held up his hands. "Don't try it again, last time hurt. The rule's simple, you said it yourself. The one in charge needs to end it then everyone can go back. So can we go now?"

"What if he's in trouble?" George was frowning.

"Who?"

"Fred."

There was silence for long moments as Lee tried to follow that train of thought and failed. "He's in your head," he said, trying not to sound exasperated. "He doesn't exist outside of this room. Nothing really exists outside of this room. Not even this room exists. We're in the back of your shop. You're lying on the sofa, I'm sitting on the floor. Fred's not in trouble, because Fred _is not_."

There was another pause in which Lee wondered how drunk George still was. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" George asked.

Lee opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. When he opened it for the second time, he grinned. "Pretty much, yeah."

George only stared at him. Lee saw the moment when the tension went out of his shoulders, and he dropped his gaze. Without another word, George took his wand from the back pocket of his jeans, flicked it and spoke the words that would end the illusion.

Lee waited for the room to fade out.

It didn't.

*

George had cast the spell at least a dozen times, but the world they were in didn't so much as flicker. The sun was already close to the horizon; it would be dark soon.

"This is not going according to plan," Lee muttered.

"When did anything go according to plan in the last year?" George said, not bothering to lift his voice at the end of what technically was a question.

Lee wasn't up to sarcasm anymore. He got up and walked over to the door, opened it and looked outside. "Would it help if we went back out to the place where you started the daydream?"

The short shrug of George's shoulders indicated that he didn't know either. "We can try."

Lee heard the rolling waves of the nearby coast and the noises that came from the trees on the other side. They'd grown louder in the time they'd been in the hut.

George tried the spell again - to no avail. They both cursed, then argued what to do, then went back into the hut as it was the only thing they could think of.

The sofa was not as comfortable as the bed, but not as dirty either. Lee sat down and watched George who paced in the limited space. "What now?" Lee asked. "How're we going to end this?"

George raked his hand through his hair. "Hell if I know. Can't last forever, yeah?"

That wasn't very promising, Lee thought. "Can't you fix this somehow? You invented this shit. What went wrong?"

"Could you stop talking and let me think for a moment here?"

Instead of an answer, Lee held up his hands and pursed his lips. Then he got up, careful not to run into George who was still pacing, and went over to what they called 'kitchen', but was really only a cupboard and a tiny stove run by wood or magic. Not long ago, Lee had practically lived here, hosting an underground radio program and thinking that in the end, everything would be all right. He'd grown up since then.

There were a few bottles of ale in the cupboard, and Lee took two of them, opened them at the edge of the cupboard door. He also found some canned food, half a loaf of bread that wasn't too hard yet, chocolate, biscuits, some apples and a bottle of cheap Firewhiskey. For the moment, he left everything but the beer where it was.

"Could be the memory part of the potion," George said, turning to face Lee. "I usually keep the components of the potion stocked. If I want some, I only have to mix the five parts. But I ran out of the memory and the subconsciousness part, so I had to brew them."

Lee gave him one of the bottles and drank from his own before prompting, "And?"

George downed half of his ale in one long gulp. "I was drunk."

"I figured." Lee again asked himself how long George had been here already - George seemed reasonably sober now - but he refrained from asking.

"If, some time during the brewing, I hypothetically dropped one of the memories into the cauldron instead of just dipping the silver strands into it, then there could be consequences."

"Can you say that again without the sugar coating?" Lee asked. The worried look on George's face made him feel uneasy.

"I think I remember dropping one of the memories into the cauldron. That's not disastrous in itself, but if I forgot to take it back out - and Merlin, I'm almost sure I caught it, but I was rat arsed - the effect could be," George waved with his hands, "practically anything."

"Practically anything," Lee repeated. His heart was beating faster now. "You know," he said, "I'm _this_ close to freaking out." Lee demonstrated it with his thumb and forefinger, barely a gap visible between them. "So cut the crap now, and tell me what exactly 'practically anything' is."

George drank the rest of his beer. " _If_ I dropped the memory and _if_ I forgot to take it out..." George exhaled. "It could take over."

"Take over. Take over what?"

George sighed, then sat down next to Lee. He held up his hand and ticked off with the help of his fingers. "Memory, subconscious desires, conscious wishes, chance to add unpredictability, stabilising the whole thing. That are the five parts of the potion. It's taken us months to find the right balance."

Lee nodded. "I remember that."

"Too much subconsciousness meant that we'd find out things about ourselves we really didn't want to know." George shuddered visibly at the thought. "Too much consciousness, and it was too predictable, too boring. Too much stabilising, and virtually nothing moved. Too much memory, and the effect was utterly unpredictable. The person taking the potion wasn't in charge any more, but something from the past they had no control over. We ended up on some bad trips with that one."

Lee already felt as if he were on a bad trip. "How do we make it stop? How did you get out when you tested it?"

"We never tested alone. You can stop it if you take the antidote."

The ale wasn't helping, and Lee put the bottle down. "We cannot take the antidote. We don't _have_ the antidote." Not to mention that there was no one who could give it to their unconscious bodies. "So tell me, please, that there's a way for us to go back. And don't tell me we're going to stay here until we starve in the real world and start to rot."

George got up again and started to pace once more. "All memories I used were memories of Fred." Lee didn't miss how George's voice wavered when he spoke the name. Nevertheless, George continued. "Therefore the one that fell into the cauldron was one of him. Do you think it's a coincidence that he seems to be the only thing that went missing?"

Lee shook his head. His stomach felt as if it had tied itself into knots as he suspected where this was going.

"I think that Fred's taken over," George said.

"Fred's not real," Lee answered automatically.

"He is. He's very much real here. The rule's simple, Lee," George said in an imitation of what Lee had said earlier. "The one in charge needs to end it."

"You've got to be kidding." Bile was rising in Lee's throat, and he regretted drinking the ale.

George stopped pacing and looked at him. "We have to find Fred."

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

gone . two

They talked about their problem for a long time - back and forth and back and forth. At one point, Lee almost strangled George, and he knew that George came close to throwing some punches. In the end, they decided to sleep on it. It was dark by then, and there was nothing they could do in the middle of the night. Going anywhere before morning would be silly as well as dangerous. When they went to sleep - Lee in the bed and George on the couch - they still hoped that Fred would come back some time during the night. If what George had said was true, and Fred had taken over this hallucination, it only made sense that he'd reappear.

He didn't.

It was barely dawn when Lee opened his eyes. The light was dim in the hut, and the warming charm George had cast in the evening had lost its strength. Lee shivered and pulled the thin blanket over his shoulders, giving himself another moment to wake up. It was unnerving how real the world around him still appeared. Shouldn't the potion have weakened during the night?

He touched the blanket again to feel it; and yes, it was just as real as the blanket on his own bed at home. He closed his eyes and told himself that he probably was in that very bed, dreaming. Denial didn't work, though. His stomach growled loudly, announcing its persistent discontent. Dinner the night before had consisted of canned beans and an apple - hardly enough to still his hunger.

"You awake?" Lee asked loud enough to wake George in case he was still sleeping.

There was no answer, and Lee saw no movement. He stretched and sat up, groaning when cold air hit his bare legs. After pulling on his jeans, he walked over to the sofa. George hadn't answered because George wasn't there.

The wave of panic that hit him was short but fierce. It left him gasping and trembling, sure that every bit of his blood had dropped below his waist. He was on the way to recovery and called himself an assortment of names when the door opened and George came inside with an armload of wood.

"Morning, lovely," George said in a mock-sweet tone. "Did you have nice dreams?"

"Always, with you around. You should know that." Lee was still working on getting his breathing under control.

George stopped when Lee spoke. "Everything all right?" he asked.

Lee found the thin leather band in the pocket of his jeans and tied his dreadlocks at the base of his scull. "'Course," he answered. "Where've you been?"

George nodded at the wood. "Thought we could use some coziness before we move on." He opened the lid of the stove and filled it with the wood, then ignited the dry logs with his wand. Lee raised his eyebrows as George needed to cast the spell three times to do it.

"You still want to go to Diagon Alley?" Lee asked.

George shrugged. "It's the only thing I can think of."

"Apparition still not working?" That was another thing that scared Lee. It wasn't new that magic was wonky in these make-believe worlds. But in their situation, he'd rather have a dependable wand.

George shook his head. "Tried it just a couple of minutes ago. Couldn't even go from here to the trees." He closed the lid of the stove, then cleaned his hands on his trousers.

The idea of walking to Diagon Alley to look for someone who didn't even exist was insane. They'd have to go through terrain neither of them knew for approximately a hundred and thirty miles - or more or less as they honestly didn't know how _anything_ in this fantasy world worked. And all of this only because of a faint hope that said non-existent person could end this nightmare. Lee started to sweat. This was taking crazy to a whole new level.

"Hey," George said and put a hand on Lee's arm. He was closer than he'd been before. "Don't panic, yeah? It'll be all right."

Lee glared at him. "And you know that why? How do you know that there is a Diagon Alley. Maybe there is no London. Maybe a Manticore is waiting for us behind those trees. Maybe Fred isn't there. Maybe Fred can't help. Maybe there'll be fucking mountains as big as the Himalayas to cross. Maybe we'll be dead by the time we come to Diagon Alley, because, let's face it, we're never going to make it in two days. And how long do you think we can survive without water in the fucking back of your fucking shop?" Lee was almost shouting at the end of his litany.

George's grip was strong on his arm. It was almost to the point that it hurt, but it helped to ground Lee. "Time's not working here as it's working in the other world," George said. "We've been through this, Lee. What else is there? It's the only thing I can think of. Do you have another suggestion?"

Lee thought that there was not a chance in hell that this was going to work. The idea to go to Diagon Alley and find Fred was wrong in more ways than he could count. It was the most illogical thing he could think of. And yet, he didn't know what else they could do. He shook his head.

George hugged him briefly and then let go to run his hands through his hair. "Trust me."

*

Breakfast consisted of tea without sugar, stale biscuits and more canned food. They'd put everything that looked remotely useful on the table and decided what to take with them and what to leave behind. If at any point during the trip their magic would stop working altogether, they'd be fucked, Lee thought.

They had food for approximately two days and a bottle for each of them to carry water. This world wasn't real, but Lee had already experienced that he nevertheless got hungry and thirsty. He wouldn't voluntarily try to find out what happened if one refused to eat or drink.

In one regard, they'd been lucky. When Lee had lived here in spring, he'd had to be prepared to run at any time. All his gear was still there, probably conjured up with the memory. There was a sleeping bag, a Muggle torch, a sharp knife, a small hatchet, a change of clothes, a book about edible plants and general survival - a present from Kingsley - and of course the big backpack to carry it around as comfortably as possible.

Another short discussion later - _this is insane; no there's no other way; it won't work; then stay here if you want to_ \- they were ready to go. The tugging in Lee's stomach said that all of this was going to end very badly.

"Come on, lazy git." George said. He was carrying the backpack and seemed to be in good spirits. Lee watched it with concern.

In theory, London shouldn't be too hard to find. They were on the very Eastern edge of England and had to go South West. There were villages, towns, roads, all sorts of places where they would meet people who could tell them which way to go in case they'd go lost. At least it was like that in the real world. They had no idea what it was going to be like here.

They'd only been walking for a few minutes when Lee suddenly stopped.

"What?" George asked, frowning at him over his shoulder.

"What about Death Eaters?" The thought had struck Lee as he'd again tried to figure out the logic behind what they were doing.

"What about them? They're gone. Most of them in Azkaban, the rest of them dead or on the run."

Lee shook his head. "But this is spring last year. We've gone back in time. If this world resembles the real world, and if your memory thinks it's fun to send some Death Eaters after us, we're going to have a problem."

"Oh shit," George said. "I haven't even thought of that."

Lee thought that George hadn't thought of a lot of things, but didn't say it. There was no need to have another fight. "We should be careful around towns and people."

George nodded. "But we're still going. We need to go to Diagon. You know that."

"You're mad," Lee muttered, but started walking.

*

"Maybe we can find one of those car things," George said, chewing.

They'd stopped for lunch and were sharing the rest of the bread and a can of peas for lunch. "We've been walking for four hours and we haven't even seen a road yet," Lee said, nearly gagging on his mouthful of lukewarm peas. His feet were hurting and both of his heels were blistered.

"Do you think that's strange?" George asked.

Lee shrugged. "I've never been hiking here. I have no idea where exactly we are. Could be normal. Probably it's weird, considering that we're in the middle of England. There should be roads, right?" So far the landscape had been more or less the same. They'd been walking through fields at first, then through woods that had thickened steadily, keeping them in gloomy shadows and cool, humid forest climate.

George held up his hands in a gesture that said he didn't know. "You tell me. You're the Half-blood."

The fact that Lee's mother was a Muggle didn't help at all. He wasn't an outdoor kid. He'd grown up in the middle of Diagon Alley, and the relatives on his mother's side all lived in London. He had no idea what this landscape was supposed to look like. He thought there should be roads. There were roads everywhere, weren't there? The tightening in Lee's stomach was still there, now accompanied by an unpleasant feeling that they were being watched.

George chewed his bread, eating his peas as if they were sweets. "We wouldn't know how to use a car anyway," he reasoned. "They're not like the one Dad owned. Magic is easy, but the Muggle ones are complicated. Did you ever see the inside of one of those things? Insane."

A snicker made its way up Lee's throat and erupted into a slightly hysterical fit of laughter.

"What?" George asked.

Lee was still laughing. "Sometimes I forget how adorable you can be when you're not busy being an arse."

"Oh, shut it," George muttered.

*

As time passed and the landscape still didn't change - no roads, no cars, no houses - the mood sank. They walked in silence for what felt like a long time, cursing every now and then when one of them stumbled or was hit in the face by a twig. It was gloomy in the forest, and the humidity made them sweat even though it wasn't too warm.

They reached a small stream late in the afternoon. By then, every step hurt, and they were both grumpy. The water was gurgling and looked clean enough to drink. Lee washed his face and hands, wet the back of his neck with cool water. He sat down on a rock next to the stream and pulled off his shoes, hissing. Then he peeled off his socks. The blisters had grown and almost completely covered his heels, the insides of his feet and his toes.

"Next time I'm going to buy hiking boots before I touch anything from your shop."

George was doing the same, pulling off his shoes and inspecting his feet. He scowled at Lee's words. "Next time you could just keep your fingers off anything from my shop."

"Yeah, right," Lee said. He didn't want to fight. He prodded one of the blisters and winced, debating whether it would be better to leave them the way they were or if he should cut them open to release the clear liquid.

George made the decision for him. He came over, grabbed Lee's left ankle non too gently and cast a healing charm. It burned, but relief came quickly.

"Thanks, mate," Lee said.

"Hang on." George didn't let go of his ankle and cast the charm again, then moved to the other foot. "Just didn't want to risk you injuring yourself with healing charms. You never got the hang of them."

"Does that mean I get to make fire to prevent us from blowing up the whole forest?"

George punched Lee's shoulder. "You can make fire, cook beans _and_ sing me a lullaby if you want to."

*

Lee woke up when the cold started to crawl into his bones. He shivered and tried to lie still inside his sleeping bag, wondering how George was doing in his own that he had transfigured from the blanket in the hut. The transfiguration had been successful. They'd laid out the blanket in the form of a sleeping bag, and then basically seamed it and changed the material slightly so it would be easier to carry. Trying to make a second backpack out of a cushion had been futile, just as their warming charms never lasted.

They were laying close to the fire that had burnt down, and Lee looked to his right to see whether George was sleeping. He again found George gone.

Lee sat up, the movement causing cold air to come inside the sleeping bag. He adjusted his thick woolen jumper - courtesy of Molly Weasley - glad that he had it with him.

"George?" he asked.

"'m here," came the tired reply from behind him.

Lee crawled out of the bag, immediately stuffing his hands into his pockets. He saw the faint outline of a tree and made his way over. George was sitting there, leaning against the trunk, wrapped up in the old transfigured blanket. "What are you doing?" Lee asked and sat down next to his friend - close, as he hoped to catch some of George's warmth.

George shrugged against his side. "I'm sitting," he said.

The moment stretched; so did the silence.

"You all right?" Lee asked after a while. He had his hands between his knees and rubbed them together.

George made an exasperated noise, moved, unwrapped the blanked and threw it around both of them. "Keep your hands where I can see them," he said. "Palms up."

Lee's automatic reaction was to curl an arm around George's back and put his hand low on George's hip.

"You're a bloody perv, Jordan." George's voice sounded tired and worn. He didn't try to move away.

"It's me," Lee said. "Distraction doesn't work. What's up?"

George leaned against him in the dark. "You know what's up." George shifted under the blanket and lifted one arm either to rub his eyes or run a hand through his hair.

Lee didn't let it go. "You still can't sleep?"

"Nope."

"Nightmares?"

George shrugged.

There was a long pause, and Lee wrapped his arm tighter around George.

George shifted again, then cleared his throat before he spoke. "You're not trying to cuddle me better, are you?"

"'Course not," Lee said, smiling into the darkness.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

gone . three

Lee woke up with a stiff neck, frozen legs and a bloodless arm. He groaned as he moved and his limbs reported one by one their discomfort. The pain in his shoulders was the worst. He'd carried the heavy backpack in the afternoon the day before, and leaning against the tree for hours had done the rest. He carefully pulled his arm out from behind George who was still asleep. Lee got up groaning, moving himself, stretching, his joints popping. The sensation when blood rushed back into his arm made him grimace; it felt like an army of dwarfs torturing him with needles. He clenched his teeth and waited until it got better.

George was snoring softly; Lee watched him with a smile, remembering better times. He didn't have the heart to wake him up yet and instead went down to the gurgling stream, the sun barely above the horizon and the morning air still crisp. After a moment of hesitation, Lee pulled off his jumper and t-shirt, grimacing as the cold breeze hit his naked skin.

With both hands he scooped up icy water to wash his face and arms, gasping as it ran down his chest, causing goosebumps. Kneeling on the water's edge, he bent down as far as he could without toppling over and lowered his face into the stream, letting the water gush over his head. He came back up spluttering, fully awake and ready to face the day. He wrung out his hair until it stopped dripping, put his shirt and jumper back on and went back to their camp.

"You're going to catch a cold." George - awake and making breakfast - had spotted Lee and was now giving him a look that would have made his mother proud. He had a can in his hand and pointed at it with his wand.

Lee wasn't a morning person, and George's tone annoyed him. "A cold is the least of my problems," he said. He tried to dry his hair with a charm like he always did. But this time, there wasn't the pleasantly tingling sensation, followed by a wave of warmth that made his hair dry instantly. The breath of warmth that came from his wand was hardly noticeable. Lee retried twice, then gave up, even more annoyed because George had been right. Dreadlocks needed forever to dry without magic. Too late now, he reckoned.

George raised an eyebrow. "Don't complain when you get sick," he said.

Lee wanted to bite his tongue and let it rest. They'd never fought about petty things - they actually hadn't ever fought much. There was no coffee, though, not even tea and no breakfast that was worth mentioning. His shoulders hurt, his back hurt, his feet would hurt again soon, he was caught in a world he didn't belong in, and he didn't need this patronising tone. "I bloody well complain whenever I want to," he said, knowing better but not able to help himself. "It's not my fault that we're here. I didn't sign up for this trip."

The can George had been holding mad a dull sound as it hit the earthy ground. He straightened up, a deep crease on his forehead. "You didn't? You mean you didn't come into my shop unasked, drank a potion you weren't supposed to drink, followed me to where I didn't want you to follow me, then did _something_ that caused Fred to disappear and leave us alone. Is that what you mean? Silly me; it sounds like it's exactly what you signed up for."

Lee gaped at him. "Are you saying this is my fault?" He was squeezing his dreads, trying to get as much water out of them as possible. "What am I supposed to do? Lean back and watch you kill yourself?"

"Oh, please. If I wanted to kill myself I'd have done it nine months ago. Look at me. I'm coping. I'm moving on. I'm even putting on weight."

"Yeah, right." Lee snorted. "Peachy as a peach. If we forget the drugs, that is."

"Where'd you get that holy attitude? That stick up your arse doesn't suit you, and your hypocrisy stinks worse than dung bombs."

Lee crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I can walk into your flat whenever I want to. It's up to me to deal with your shit because no one else can. You could have changed the wards long ago. Don't tell me you don't want me there. As long as you let me in, I don't believe it."

George made a growling sound that seemed to come from the very back of his throat and kicked the dirt. He looked like the very picture of frustration. "Don't make me, Lee. Don't make me." He abruptly turned around and walked down to the stream where Lee had just come from.

Lee watched him in confusion. "Make you what?" he asked but George either didn't hear it or chose not to answer. Lee sat down on a fallen tree, propped his elbows up on his knees and rubbed his palms up and down his face. He wanted to help. George still hurt in ways Lee couldn't even begin to understand, and Lee wanted to make it better. He didn't know how, though. George was pushing him away like everyone else. And that hurt, too.

He cursed and tugged on his wet hair, wishing he knew what to do and what to say. The only thing he could really count on was his stubbornness and refusal to let go of George. They'd been friends for too long; George was too important to even consider it.

There was a noise to his right, and Lee lifted his head, letting himself be pulled out of his thoughts. There was nothing, though, just trees and ground and bushes. He picked up a stone and flung it as hard as he could at nothing in particular.

When George came back, breakfast was ready. They ate canned meat and biscuits, talking only when it was necessary.

"How much food do we have?" George asked.

"There's hardly enough left for the rest of the day," Lee said. "Some chocolate as well. But that's it."

George nodded. He seemed reluctant to voice what was on his mind. Lee was glad; he didn't want to hear it.

*

After three hours of walking, the forest wasn't as thick any more; there was more space between the trees. It was still gloomy, though, still dim and the sounds were strangely muffled. Some of those noises worried Lee.

There were noises that didn't sound like the usual rustling of branches in the wind or the occasional patter of tiny feet scurrying along the ground - a branch snapping as if someone was following them, a bush being breached by something bigger than a doe, a thud behind them as if something heavy was setting its foot onto the padded forest ground. Lee pretended not to find it strange as it could very well be nothing at all. But when he heard the thud again, he stopped.

"Did you hear something?" he asked and looked back the way they'd come from.

George shook his head. "Nothing. What is it?"

"Dunno. Strange forest noises."

George frowned, looked back as well, then turned around again. "Looks like we'll reach the edge of the forest soon. I can already see the fields through the trees." He pointed.

Lee ran his fingers through his still clammy hair and lifted it off the back of his neck for a moment. "So let's just go on and reach the fields before the noises reach us?" Lee asked.

"You want to go back and look what it is?"

Lee didn't want to go back. He didn't even know if there was something to go back to that wasn't a rabbit, a doe or just the wind in the trees. "All right then," he said and started to walk again.

The agreement to walk faster was made silently. Lee didn't talk about the prickling at his neck, or that he would rather run than walk. He was almost sure now that they were being watched. The sensation was so strong that he'd gripped his wand firmly, ready to point it at any threat. George felt it, too; Lee saw it in the way he turned around every few paces.

The last trees were almost within reach when Lee heard the sound of snapping branches again, followed by a series of thumps. It was close now. "You heard that, right?" he asked, gripping the strap of the backpack hard with the hand that didn't hold the wand.

Rustling behind them.

George turned around again. "I can hear it. Can't spot it, though."

Another branch breaking.

"No thestrals; we'd see them," Lee mused, speeding up some more. They were almost there.

A sound, this time so close that Lee thought whatever caused it was near enough to touch him.

He looked back and stumbled over the root of a tree. George's hand shot out and closed around Lee's arm like a vice, keeping him from falling.

A loud cracking sound from the left side and a shrill shriek.

They started to run. George, who was faster without the backpack, was pulling Lee forward. "Come on, Jordan," he shouted.

The minute it took them to finally break through he last line of trees into the open, sun flooded field seemed like an eternity. They kept running once they'd made it, the ghost of the noise still haunting them.

"Stop," Lee finally said, breathing hard, allowing himself to slow down.

"Where is it?" George was panting next to him but had stopped as well. "What was that?"

Lee shook his head; he didn't know. "Why the fuck did it stop at the edge of the forest?"

"Did it?" George looked around. "We didn't see it back there, what makes you think we'd see it here?"

"We'd see the grass move. We'd hear it. Fuck Merlin, I don't know." Lee didn't like the sound of his own voice.

"What if it flew-"

As if on cue, a flock of large birds erupted from the trees and soared high up into the air. They were the size and shape of buzzards, but their wings were darker. The birds changed direction, flew back over the forest and disappeared one by one behind the canopy, uttering cries that sounded like snickering.

Lee laughed nervously. "You don't think it was them? Birds?"

George glanced at him, but as soon as their eyes met, he looked away. "What else?" he asked.

"It was close. And you heard it stomp, too, yeah? Come on, George, that wasn't birds."

"Let's keep our eyes open."

*

Walking was easier on the brighter side of the forest. The shadows were gone and replaced by sunlight. The air was less humid, and even Lee's hair - still heavy and cold on his head - was less uncomfortable. The sensation of being watched was still there, but it was less prevalent now that they were out in the open. It diminished with the growing distance between them and the trees.

It was around noon when Lee saw them. At first, he thought he imagined it. He so desperately wanted to see signs of other people's existence in this world that he wouldn't have been surprised about his mind playing a neat trick. If what he saw was real, it would mean that there was at least a slight chance that they could reach London - that there even _was_ a London somewhere ahead. Lee still didn't think that trying to find Fred and convince him to send them back home made sense, but what else was there?

When a minute later the sight hadn't changed, he stopped. "I see houses," he said.

"What?" George looked up sharply. He squinted into the direction Lee indicated, then nodded. "Yeah, I see them." He looked again and frowned. "Definitely there. I should have seen them earlier."

"You should have paid attention," Lee said with a grin.

"I did!" George protested but then seemed to reconsider. "Whatever. Not like it matters."

*

They made only one short break, hardly long enough to eat their ration that consisted of two apples and a bar of chocolate. It was a drop in the bucket after hours of walking. Lee was hoping for shelter and maybe even a warm meal. The houses were close now.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the road that led to the small cluster of houses. So far they'd seen no people, no cars, no smoke rising from the chimneys, no cattle or any other movement. They stopped at an open gate, looking into a wild garden that surrounded a bright red building.

"That's not a Muggle house," George said.

Lee nodded. "I can see that." There were magical plants growing in the garden, signs of a gnome population, and the angle of the upper level suggested that it was held in place by more than stone and mortar.

"It could explain why the road's deserted." There was doubt in George's voice.

"Doesn't explain why everything else looks deserted."

It wasn't just the lack of movement. With the exception of the houses, there was not a single sign of people living there. Lee heard no voices, no sound of machines, no wireless playing, not even the bark of a faithful dog. He didn't smell smoke or cooking or the stench of dung bombs thrown by an aspiring prankster. The place felt empty.

"Hello?" George shouted. "Is anyone here?"

There was no answer.

Lee was unsure of how to proceed. The feeling that this place couldn't be trusted was strong. He tried to spot anything that would help to put him at ease - to no avail. The doormat was aligned in a way that looked as if no one had ever stepped on it, and it was spotless despite its light cream colour. The red paint was immaculate without any scrapes or patches or peeled off plaster. The window glass sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear and clean.

"Look at those," George said, pointing to where gardening tools were leaning against the left side of the front wall.

Lee had already seen them but hadn't found it strange at first. Now he looked closer. Like everything else they looked eerily clean; their metal parts gleamed in the sunlight.

"I don't like it," Lee said. "Something's off."

"Way off," George agreed.

"What do you think?"

George shrugged. "I'm hungry and tired and don't want to spend the night without a roof over my head."

"But..." Lee gestured at the house instead of trying to explain why he didn't want to knock on the door, let alone stay the night.

"I'll go and have a look," George decided. He went through the gate and onto the path that lead to the door. Lee followed, doubting that this was a good idea.

George stopped in front of the door and raised his hand. He didn't have to knock. With a creaking sound that was far too loud, the door swung open.

"Hello?" George called again; and again there was no answer.

Lee wanted to ask him not to go inside. But they _were_ hungry, and they _were_ tired, and there really was no good reason not to at least have a look. George must have come to the same conclusion as he was already through the door before there was a chance to argue. Lee followed him.

The house was empty. Lee didn't need to go through each room to see it. It felt empty; it smelled empty; it looked empty. Everything was tidy, clean, nothing out of place. They went through a narrow hall and into a medium-sized living room. It was nice, Lee supposed, even though it didn't feel cosy. It was too pristine. He briefly looked at the grey couch, the dark red carpet and the white walls. It was nothing out of the ordinary on first glance.

"Come here," George yelled from what turned out to be the kitchen.

Lee went through the open door and found George with his head inside the cooling cupboard. "Food?" Lee asked.

"Lots," was George's short answer. He'd already begun to take out the treasures. There was fruit, soup, something that looked like a ready made casserole, canned food, cheese and another packet of biscuits.

Lee forgot his doubts when he saw and smelled what was going to be their dinner.

"Ale!" George cried triumphantly and took out two bottles. "I don't care why there are no people," he said. "We can eat something, stay for the night, and we can use the bloody loo."

Lee opened a drawer and found silverware. "How far is it to Diagon Alley? What do you think?" he asked.

George shrugged. He'd unwrapped the casserole and sniffed at it. The resulting grin gave away the verdict. "Been walking for two days. Through the forest we were a bit slower. I reckon we made around twenty five, maybe even thirty miles a day."

"Thirty miles?" Lee thought that was a very optimistic guess, but kept his doubts to himself. "That means at least another two or three days."

George nodded. "In theory."

The rest was left unsaid. The distance was only a guess; the whole endeavour was based on a guess; this whole world was only a guess. Lee's head started to buzz as he thought about it, so he took the first thing he saw - a banana - peeled it and bit into it. The sugar sweet, mushy taste brought him back and helped to focus on the small joys of the moment instead of the glaring insanity of the big picture.

They ate mostly in silence. Then, each with a bottle of ale in one hand and a wand in the other, they climbed the stairs to search through the upper level of the house. They found nothing out of the ordinary. There was a master bedroom, a room that obviously belonged to a little boy, a bathroom and a guest room. All of those rooms looked as if they had never been used; the closets were empty.

"We're going to sleep in the same room," Lee decided.

"Why, Jordan, how suave." There was a hint of something in George's voice that Lee hadn't heard in a long time.

*

The shower was overdue - it was bad once one started to notice one's own smell - and the sensation of warm water washing away dirt and sweat had never been this good before. Lee was careful not to get his hair wet again. It was still not completely dry, and there was a cottony feel to his head, a dull throbbing behind his temples that made him regret the impromptu bath in the stream.

He looked at the dirty pile of clothes in the corner of the room, wrinkled his nose and grabbed a towel to dry himself. Then he sat down on the edge of the tub, tending to his feet, trying to charm away the blisters that had come back during the day. The charm was weak and didn't bring much relief. Lee rubbed his eyes and felt sorry for himself.

It was long minutes later when he left the bathroom, carrying his filthy clothes, the towel slung low around his hips.

George whistled when Lee entered the master bedroom. "You smell like vanilla pudding," he said.

"Don't complain; I know for a fact that you like vanilla pudding."

"I haven't said it wasn't an improvement." George was looking at him from behind the open door of the closet, frowning. "There are clothes."

"No, there aren't," Lee said and plopped down on the bed.

George rolled his eyes, grabbed something and threw it at Lee. It was a clean t-shirt.

Lee stared at it. "That closet was empty not half an hour ago."

George shrugged and threw more at him - boxers, socks, a pair of jeans, a warm, hooded jumper. "It's not empty now."

Lee took each item in hand, trying to make sure that it was actually there. "How convenient." His voice was laced with sarcasm.

"Convenient?" George asked him.

Lee got back up, dropped the towel and started to dress. "Don't you think it's just a _tad_ strange that we came to an empty house where we found food and clothes, a nice shower, a soft bed? What the fuck is happening here?" He pulled up the boxers angrily, wincing when his balls suffered from the excess force.

He looked over at George who was biting his lip in a gesture Lee knew well. "Don't you dare laugh," Lee snapped at him. "There's nothing remotely funny about this." He stepped into the jeans and yanked them up over his hips. "Where's Fred? Is he lurking somewhere in a corner, watching us? What's happening at home? It's been more than two days. Will we even notice if we die? _When_ we die?" Lee's voice was higher than usual. "What are we going to do if we don't find him? For all we know he could be in Australia, surfing with sharks." He struggled with the t-shirt until it surrendered and he could pull it over his head; it fit snugly. "Oh wait. There's no Australia; there are no sharks; there's no Fred. How can he be in London when we're here? How can he make up a whole world without even existing? How does he know what we need?" The whole concept was so complex and impossible that it made Lee's head spin whenever he tried to think it through. "Come on George, say something. What are we going to do?"

George looked at him for a long time, then shook his head once. "Firewhiskey?" he asked.

Lee buried his face in his hands, then ran them over his head, growled in frustration and cursed. He thought about the bottle of cheap booze they'd carried in the backpack all the way from the hut. He nodded and said, "Firewhiskey."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

  
gone . four

It was warm under the heavy blanket. Lee lay on his side in a cocoon of comfort, legs bent at the knees, one hand tugged under his pillow, the other resting on the soft sheets. He blinked into the darkness, the reminders of weird dreams clouding the memory of what had disturbed his sleep and awoken him in the middle of the night.

Trying to be very still, Lee listened, heart beating rapidly. But there was only the steady rhythm of George's breathing next to him. Earlier, George had mocked him for insisting on sleeping together in the big double bed in the master bedroom.

"I don't think this is necessary," George had said, "Unless you have ulterior motives. And then I'd have at least expected shaved legs."

"Big words for someone who's already undressed and hiding under the covers," Lee had answered. He'd tilted his head and pointed at his pillow. "Did you plump that up? You're a sweetheart." That had ended the discussion.

A noise pulled Lee out of his thoughts. It was a scraping sound, and didn't come from within the room. He concentrated, stopped breathing and willed himself to hear more. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he was now able to make out the outlines of the open bedroom door that led to a narrow hallway; it was nothing but a black hole in the darkness of the night.

He didn't move. And after what felt like forever but was probably only a minute later, he heard it again. Scraping, as if something was being dragged across the floor.

George was still sleeping, and Lee didn't want to wake him; he needed any sleep he could get.

As quietly as possible, Lee slipped out from under the covers. He grabbed his wand, grateful that his 'Lumos' worked, and the room appeared in the soft glow of his wand light. He took his shirt from the chair next to the bed, not thinking about why he felt the need to be dressed in more than his thin boxers.

The lit wand helped to avoid the bed and open door, then the hip-high chest of drawers once he was in the hall.

There was again the scraping sound. It came from the left side, from behind the bathroom door. Lee tip-toed closer, pressed his ear against the door and waited. He heard it again, louder.

Wand held out in front of him, Lee pressed down the door handle. He watched with his heart still beating fast as the room grew with every inch the door moved.

There wasn't much in the room. A tub, a sink with a mirror above it, a small cabinet, the toilet, a cupboard and the big broom closet that seemed out of place and was empty. He knew because they'd checked earlier. There was nothing that could have caused the sounds.

Lee exhaled with a shaky laugh, running his hand through his hair, telling himself that he must have imagined things.

As tension and adrenaline were dissipating, he realised how much his ears were hurting. He'd concentrated so hard on the imagined noise that he'd shoved the consistent dull throbbing to the back of his mind. It worried him. It reminded him of when he'd been a little boy and spent countless nights with his head on his mother's lap, crying because of infected ears. He'd always been susceptible to ear infections. Lee swallowed; that hurt as well. Dismayed, he brought one hand to his forehead. It was hot and sweaty.

The small cabinet with the big red sign had been empty earlier, too. But maybe the same person (thing) who'd shown mercy and given them clothes had left something against the fever. Lee went inside the room, the faint light of his wand leading the way, and opened the medicine cabinet. It was as empty as the room itself. "Bloody fantastic," Lee muttered, looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw – pale face, tired eyes, slumped shoulders – and turned around to go back to George and the bed that was at least warm.

Scraping.

Lee froze in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. The room was in shadows, the narrow beam of light from his wand revealing nothing that hadn't been there a minute earlier. The tiles were painted in shades of black and grey; the tub to his right was a dark pit; next to the sink on his left was the small window, and he saw the shapes of trees looming outside in the light of the waning moon.

He turned slowly and pointed his wand at the only place the noise could come from – the large broom closet at the wall directly in front of him.

Scraping.

The closet had been empty earlier, but it obviously wasn't empty now.

"Alohomora." The lock clicked, but the door didn't open.

"Alohomora." Nothing at all happened.

"Aloho _fucking_ mora," Lee said. He didn't want to go over there and open the door with his own hands.

Whether it was the effect of the slightly altered curse or whether the thing inside the closet pushed, wasn't clear. It didn't matter, though, as the result was the same: the door swung open.

Lee gasped in shock. He knew at once what he was looking at. Unable to move, he stared at the vile, stinking creature that was staring back at him.

It was a rotten corpse, clothed in rags that hung in shreds from its limbs. The face was horrifying. Torn lips surrounded an empty hole shaped to utter a soundless cry. The cheeks were fallen in, the skin peeling off, exposing raw flesh. It was too dark to make out the colour, but not dark enough to miss the fat, slow moving maggots that had found a soft and squishy home.

Thin tufts of hair stood out from the uneven skull. One arm dangled at its side as if broken. It was raising the other towards Lee, pointing at him.

Lee stood there in his boxers and t-shirt, trembling violently, facing what had been his worst nightmare from when he'd been a child and seen the first picture of an Inferi in one of his father's books.

And there was the sound again as it stepped outside the closet, dragging one foot behind it almost like an afterthought. Lee could smell it now, and he wanted to gag at the overwhelming stench of the decomposing body. The book hadn't done it justice. This was worse and far more real.

Or was it?

Regaining his ability to think, Lee remembered that he'd seen this before. Years earlier, this thing had come at him from a closet – not as ugly and not as terrifying but definitely the same creature – and he'd been taught how to deal with it.

The Inferi took another one of those dragging steps towards Lee. Just one more and it would be within reach. But Lee knew what to do.

Hand still trembling but more in control now, Lee raised his wand and concentrated on the image of the thing clothed in a yellow suit, tap-dancing.

"Riddikulus," he cried and waited. Nothing happened.

It looked at him with milky eyes and rotten teeth, mouth twisted into something that resembled a grin. Lee repeated the spell, frantically trying to change the Boggart into something he could laugh at.

It didn't work. He took another step backward as the still-Inferi came another step closer. "Riddikulus," he tried to yell but it came out like a plea. And still the creature came closer, always closer. Lee looked at its raised hand and the fingers consisting of bones that were visible through almost liquefied flesh. The smell and sight of it translated into naked fear in his mind, making him unable to react.

"Riddikulus." It was a whisper now, and too late even if it worked – which it didn't. He let go of his wand, broadened his stance and made himself ready to punch the thing in the face.

He never got that far.

An arm was wrapped around his waist from behind and he was pulled backwards, flush against George whose voice sounded like thunder as he cast the spell that set the thing on fire. It burst into flames instantly, staggering and groaning with an inhuman sound that chilled Lee to the bone despite the heat that threatened to burn his skin.

George was still pulling him backwards, flames still shooting out from the tip of his wand, finding their way to the burning Inferi. It fell backwards, its dry, burnt bones snapping like twigs, its rib cage collapsing, its legs and arms twitching. And suddenly, it was still.

George doused the flames before the house burnt down, not letting go of Lee who breathed as hard as if he'd run up a hill. It sounded too loud in the silence, and he tried to get himself back under control.

Eventually, the arm around his waist relaxed.

"We need rules," George said.

Lee was staring at what was just a pile of ashes now. "Rules? Like _'George is in charge of blowing up things?'_ " he said, experimentally shifting his weight from George's chest to his own legs.

"I was thinking more along the lines of _'Wake George up before shit happens'_ or _'Wake George up when an Inferi is coming at you'_ or _'Wake George up instead of throwing away your wand'_ or maybe even _'If you can't be bothered to wake George up then at least run'_. Yours works, too, though." George smacked the back of Lee's head.

"Wasn't a Boggart, huh?" Lee said and picked up his wand. "Could have fooled me."

"Good thing you had the presence of mind to react quickly and save yourself. Merlin knows what could have happened." George paused and looked Lee up and down. "You're all right, yeah?"

"I'm all right. Thanks, mate."

"Don't mention it." George twirled his wand and then tucked it - tip down - between the hem of his boxers and his belly.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Lee said. "You can't afford to-"

Scraping.

The sound came from downstairs. They looked at each other.

"Not good," George said.

"Time to bugger off," Lee answered.

*

It took less than five minutes until they were ready to go. The terrible sound was coming from more than one source now.

"You got the backpack?" George asked. He was dressed. Even though his hair was a tangled mess and there were creases from the pillow still on his cheek, his eyes were wide awake and intense.

"Got it," Lee said. He'd packed it before they'd gone to sleep. All their belongings were inside, plus enough food for two days. He was glad that he'd followed his instinct and prepared everything in case they'd had to leave in a hurry.

He pulled on his shoes, wincing at the way they rubbed against his blisters. George made a similar face when he pulled on his own.

"These are no boggarts," George said. "Torch them on sight."

Lee nodded. "What if the wands don't work."

George shrugged, scratching himself behind his ear with his wand. "Then we'll run."

They went down the stairs side by side, trying to turn their backs on nothing but each other. The scraping became louder once they were on the lower floor of the house. But it came from behind closed doors, and the way outside was unobstructed.

The front door was open, although Lee was sure that they'd closed it. They stepped into the night, the moon shining bright enough for them to see the way. They paused on the door step, looking around; nothing moved.

They were almost at the gate when out of the corner of his eye, Lee saw something. This time, he reacted quickly. He wheeled around, pushed George out of the way and threw flames at the Inferi that had been only inches away from George. The flames lit up the night, and a moment later, Lee wished they hadn't. There were at least a dozen of them coming behind the first one that was now burning.

George had recovered and was already adding his flames. They were far more potent than Lee's and covered a wider area; explosives were his business, after all.

"Run," George finally called.

Lee didn't have to be told twice. He turned on the spot and dashed through the gate, George on his heels.

High on adrenaline, running and walking was easy. Lee's muscles obeyed and they were out of sight of the houses fast, left the noises and the living dead behind. They ran, then walked until the first rays of sunlight announced the new day. It was cold in those early hours of the morning, but Lee was sweating from the exertion and something he didn't want to think about.

When there was no sign of the creatures that wanted to kill them, Lee started to feel the exhaustion. He could hardly breathe, his heart was trying to beat faster than a Weird Sisters song and his legs grew heavier with every step. Sweat was running down his face and his back, soaking through his t-shirt and the thick jumper.

They stopped for breakfast as the sun came up over the horizon.

"You look sick," George said, eating a sandwich that consisted of a squished banana and two slices of bread.

Lee shook his head. "Just a bit of a cold. Nothing to write home about."

George looked at him for long moments. "You're a terrible liar," he said, but didn't press.

*

Progress was slow. Neither of them was used to walking huge distances. They were young and reasonably fit, but they needed more breaks than they'd needed the previous days. It didn't help that Lee wasn't getting better. He was alternating between sweating and shivering, occasionally doing both at once.

Lee estimated that it was around eleven in the morning when they first saw the village that lay ahead. It was far bigger than the small cluster of houses where they'd encountered dead people who'd tried to kill them. It wasn't big enough to be a town either.

"What do you think?" George asked, nodding at the settlement. They were on a hill and looking down on empty streets and untouched houses.

Lee had the same impression he'd already had the day before. It felt as if no person had ever seen this place. He heard no noises, saw no movement, smelled nothing besides the earthy scent of the ground. "I don't like it," he said.

"Me either."

They were silent, and Lee contemplated skirting it. But they'd have to go the long way around, and didn't know whether it was safer in the village or in the woods that were on either side.

George pointed at the center. "There are shops. With a bit of luck we'll find something against your fever."

"I don't have a fever."

George snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Maybe we'll find a better sleeping bag. It'll be cold tonight," Lee said. "I wouldn't mind something against blisters and sore legs."

"Merlin, yeah." George sounded as desperate for some relief as Lee felt. "Let's go. We'll have a look. If we're quick, we can be on the other side in less than an hour."

*

After visiting each of the four shops - a bakery, a general store, Valerie's Vegetables and something for magical maintenance - they were disheartened. The shelves hadn't been completely empty, but nothing they'd found was helpful. There were buckets and flour, fluffy toys, celery and broken magical clocks like the one in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen. The potion section in the general store wasn't any more promising.

"D'you need something to grow your hair?" George asked.

"Nope," Lee answered, frowning at differently coloured glitter, wondering what that was for.

"Something for your wrinkles?"

"No, thank you, I'm very fine." Lee was searching for pepper-up, but the shelf was empty.

"Do you have a problem with your virility?" George was holding up a small bottle.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Lee threw a bottle of something pink at George who deflected it with his forearm.

George laughed. "Don't be shy, it's just us here." He ran his hand through his hair and tugged a strand behind his ear. "I'm only trying to help."

Lee grinned, following the movement of George's hand with his eyes. His grin faltered.

"What?" George asked.

Lee stared at him.

"Jordan?"

Lee blinked and then took a step backwards. "Who are you?"

George frowned at him. "What are you talking about?"

Now that he'd seen it, Lee couldn't believe how he'd ever missed it. It was so obvious; he should have seen it days ago. He should have spotted it the moment he'd seen George for the first time in this daydream. "No," he whispered. "I've been so stupid."

"Lee? What's up?"

"You're not real," Lee said, tasting the words, knowing they were true. "You're not real either. You're not George. Not _my_ George."

"What are you talking about?" George reached out to touch Lee who flinched and took another step backwards.

"I'm talking about your ear. Your left ear. The one you lost more than a year ago."

George touched the ear in question, a puzzled look on his face. "What's your point?"

Lee waved at him, frustrated. "My point is that your ear should not be there. It's gone. There's a black hole on the side of your head. You cover it up with your hair. That's probably why I didn't notice it for more than two days. Or maybe I'm just blind. Or maybe it wasn't there yesterday. But now it is. And it can't be real, which means _you_ are not real, because you're kind of attached to it." Lee stopped his ranting and forced himself to look into George's eyes. "You are not real."

George looked at Lee as if he'd lost his mind - and maybe he had. "Calm down for a second. I guarantee that I'm real. I'm as real as you are."

Lee snorted. "Not sure about that either, right now."

"Oh come on, you must know that I'm real. Stuff like that," George was tugging at his ear, "happens during the daydreams. Things change. Like our magic." George seemed to think for a moment. "What about your scar? I bet it's gone, too."

This time Lee didn't flinch when George reached out to touch him. He was still too stunned at the fact that George was just a figment of his imagination. George grabbed the hem of Lee's jumper and pulled it up, revealing Lee's belly. The thick scar, a pink line from his left hipbone to his navel, souvenir from a gang of snatchers, was still there.

"Bad example," George muttered and let go. "But you know me, Jordan. You can tell."

"If I made you up, how am I supposed to know the difference? You'd look and sound and feel very real. Except that I'd give you your ear back. You're a fucking fantasy."

George grinned. "That, I've been told."

"Not real," Lee said. "My George doesn't do jokes any more." He should have realised that earlier as well.

*

Lee tried to end the hallucination with the spell. If he was the one in charge of the daydream, he should be able to end it. That was the rule, after all.

It didn't work; he wasn't surprised. He was stuck in a made-up world with a friend who wasn't real, looking for a man who was dead. Lee started to see the humour in the absurdity of the situation. At least he wouldn't have to worry about George any more. George was safe at the shop, hopefully trying to figure out a way to wake Lee up.

"Well, come on my imaginary friend," Lee said. "We need to get out of this imaginary village so that the imaginary undead people don't come and imagine killing us." He shouldered the back pack. "And we need to make an imaginary lunch break and eat some imaginary food. I imagine you're hungry."

George groaned, tugging at the strap of the back-pack, indicating that it was his turn to carry it. "I'd say that you're usually more funny, but let's face it, you aren't. And stop saying that I'm not real."

"Or what? Are you going to imagine a threat?"

*

The day was long and exhausting - both physically and emotionally. After leaving the village, they made a short lunch break and then walked until evening. The light was already getting dim when they set up camp for the night. They were surrounded by trees, but not in an actual forest. It was a good place, sheltered without closing them in.

Lee was leaning with his back against a tree, glad that he could rest. He was exhausted and stretched out his legs, rubbing his sore muscles.

"You need to eat something," George said and held out a thick piece of casserole.

Lee's stomach lurched. "Not hungry," he said.

"You must be really sick."

It took a few moments, but the giggle that had been building in Lee's chest couldn't be contained. He felt silly and didn't care. Snickering, he looked at George. "There's something very funny about you using the word _really_."

George rolled his eyes and sat down next to Lee. "What does it take to make you believe that I'm real?"

"That's a paradox. If you do something that convinces me, it'll be because my subconsciousness knows what would be convincing and made you do it. If you can't do it, I won't be convinced." He reached out and tugged at George's ear. "I'm glad you have it back, but that's proof enough for me."

George batted at Lee's hand and looked at him sideways. "Is that going to change anything?"

"Of course," Lee said. "I don't have to worry about you being killed by an Inferi, invisible forest monster, or maybe a giant flying chicken. That's a big plus. And I don't have to worry about you being stuck here with me either. That's another plus." On the other side was the fact that Lee started to feel alone. He was sick and tired and lost. He'd have liked to have a friend with him, but wasn't selfish enough to wish George was there. And he had at least this George, who wasn't quite real, but a decent imitation. Although dreams and memories where he found himself alone with George usually contained less danger.

"We're still going to London, though?" George asked.

Lee nodded. "We can't stay here."

There was a pause. Lee tried to eat at least part of the casserole, but gave up eventually. He wasn't hungry and would rather have some more Firewhiskey. The half empty bottle on the kitchen table downstairs in the haunted house hadn't been the first priority upon leaving, though.

"Know what I think?" Lee said with his eyes closed. "I think he's punishing me." He opened his eyes; George frowned.

Lee tried to make sense of his own thoughts. "If this is my hallucination, and Fred took over - which is as likely as before - then he's punishing me."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would he punish you?"

Lee laughed darkly. "Lots of things. He's dead for once. I was there with him, guarding that hallway, minutes before it happened. Merlin knows why we split up and I just left him there. Funny, how no one ever asked me where the hell I was when he was killed." He took a swig from his water bottle, flinching as his right ear hurt suddenly and sharply. "Then there's his twin. They've always been far closer to each other than I've been to either of them. But they were always my best friends, and I never felt excluded. But now I am excluded. Fred's gone, and I can't reach my other best friend at all anymore. It's like he's slipping away a bit more every day."

"Don't talk about me as if I wasn't here."

"I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about George. Stubborn, brilliant, funny George, who's a bit like the bastard child of an avalanche and an explosion. Watch me; I'll kill him, too. And then who's left?"

"We need to stop this conversation right now," George said. He felt Lee's forehead with the back of his hand. "You're feverish, you think _George_ is not listening, and you're talking bullshit. If I let you talk now, it'll be one hell of an awkward morning tomorrow."

Lee shrugged. "Suit yourself. Been thinking about sleep the whole day. I don't mind crawling into my sleeping bag."

As soon as he could convince himself to move, he did just that.

Through half closed eyes, Lee watched George puttering around their camp, making fire, casting warming charms, setting alarm hexes and traps in case of uninvited visitors during the night. He eventually slipped into the kind of sleep that came with cold sweat and twisted dreams.

* * *  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

gone . five

When morning came, Lee still felt sick and weary and would have preferred to stay in the warm sleeping bag, even though the ground beneath it was hard. But he knew that they needed to go to London. Therefore he gritted his teeth, told himself not to be a wimp and forced down some food.

George had prepared breakfast, and when they were done, he packed up their things, shouldered the back pack, and announced that it was time to go. Lee was glad that someone else was making the decisions. He was also grateful for the way George distracted him with constant chatter. And while Lee sometimes caught him looking worried, George didn't comment.

Reducing the pace helped, but wasn't enough. After less than an hour on the road that they'd discovered early in the morning and had since been following, Lee needed the first break. He was breathing heavily; sweat was running down his back; his head was pounding. The simple act of walking became as hard as trying to overtake a hippogriff without a broom.

They stopped, and Lee sat down in the soft grass beside the road, exhausted. He shivered and at the same time felt too warm under the bright spring sun. The scene was postcard worthy. The sky was blue, adorned with some stray clouds. The grass was green, spring flowers growing in colourful patches. A group of trees stood to the left, and the sound of running water could be heard.

"You all right?" George asked and handed Lee the almost empty water bottle. "You look done in."

Lee drank. The cool, clean water brought relief. "I'm all right," he said. "Just give me a few." He coughed and spat into the grass, nearly gagging at the disgusting taste of mucus. He wanted to wash it away, but there was hardly a mouthful left in the bottle. "Can you get some more?" he asked George, handing him the empty bottle. "There must be a stream or something behind the trees."

George gave him another one of the worried looks. Only after Lee reassured him that he wasn't planning on dying within the next five minutes - that people rarely died of a cold in general - George took off towards the sound of the running water.

Lee closed his eyes and exhaled, repressing the urge to cough again.

"What's up, mate?" The voice was unexpected and cheery, and the person that belonged to the voice sat down next to Lee, nudging him playfully.

Had he been more awake, and had his brain been less fever-addled, Lee would have recognised the person instantly. As it was, he had time enough to think that George must have run to the stream and back in record time before he realised that this wasn't, in fact, George.

Lee snorted. "Somehow, I'm not surprised at all," he said.

Fred grinned at him. "That's disappointing. I was hoping to make a big entrance."

"Try harder, next time. Where have you been?"

"Around." Fred plucked a tiny daisy and stuck it into Lee's hair. "Much better. Distracts from your unnatural skin colour."

Lee shook his head, then regretted the movement and stopped before the flower had a chance to tumble to the ground. The constant nausea was worse than the pain in his ears, he thought.

Fred reached out and steadied Lee. "Did anyone tell you lately that sweaty-greenish really doesn't go well with your complexion?"

"Did anyone tell you lately that it's rude to be an obnoxious smart arse in someone else's fantasy?" Lee retorted.

"Well," Fred said and leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his legs, "No one taught me how to do it properly, and there's no handbook. It's all learning by doing. But I'm not too bad, don't you think? It's my first time on this side of reality."

Lee blinked. "Does that mean that you know that you're not real?"

Fred gave him an indignant look. "Obviously. Question is, do _you_ know. You seem to have an awful time lately determining whether someone is real or not."

"How does that work?" Lee was baffled. "You can't know."

"No?" Fred shook his head sadly. "Look at me. I'm doing it wrong already."

"George thinks he's real. Why don't you? And who made you up? Was that me? Was it George?"

"Maybe it was the milkman." Fred ruffled Lee's hair. "Maybe you're asking all the wrong questions. Ever thought of that?"

Lee batted Fred's hand away. "Cut the shit and tell me what you know."

"I'm not _real_. What would I know?" Fred was enjoying this; Lee wanted to throttle him.

There was a noise coming from where George had disappeared. A small group of bushes was standing there; behind them were tall trees, hiding the stream that could be heard but not seen. A branch was breaking, then there was an uttered curse. George was going to emerge from between the trees at any moment.

Fred got up and stretched, his joints cracking. "I'd love to stay for a bit, but I have an appointment. See you later, lovely." He tipped an invisible hat.

"Wait," Lee called, just as Fred turned on the spot and disapparated. He was gone in an instant. Lee was left with the knowledge that Fred was able to magically transport himself to places where George and Lee couldn't follow. He still wasn't surprised.

George came back across the meadow, the full bottle of water swinging at his side. He threw it at Lee once he was closer. "What did you do while I was gone? Did you pine?"

Lee caught the bottle. "I talked to your brother. He's well and chipper, and aware of his non-existence. He also thinks that I look good with daisies in my hair."

George stared at him and opened his mouth.

Lee interrupted before he had the chance to talk. "If you ask me now if I'm having hallucinations, I swear I'll knock you out with the bottle."

George snapped his mouth shut.

Lee shook his head at this. "You're so not real," he muttered resigned.

*

The landscape around them was changing. It had started in the morning with the road they'd discovered and continued first with little clues - ploughed fields, a road crossing, then another one - then with smatterings of houses first in the distance, then closer.

"It's so pointless," Lee said exasperated as they passed yet another empty house. "Why bother to add civilisation to a fantasy when this civilisation is dead?"

"Do you never add random details to your fantasies?" George asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Lee thought about this. "You mean like imagining a good-looking bloke fucking me and then adding a nice bedroom and nice curtains on top of a big dick?"  
George gaped at him. "'Too much' doesn't nearly cover the amount of information there, Jordan. I'm going to blackmail you into the next century once we're back."

Lee was nonplussed. "I should be allowed to talk about my fantasies with my fantasy."

"Do yourself a favour and keep it to yourself, yeah?"

Lee shrugged a non-committal 'whatever', then had to stop for a moment to put his hands on his thighs and catch his breath. Walking and talking at the same time had made him pant.

George stopped as well and looked Lee up and down. "Break?"

Lee plopped to the ground. "I've needed a break for at least an hour."

George sat down beside Lee. He unpacked the food and wrinkled his nose at the sparse offerings. "I'd kill for some curry or stew," he said.

Lee wasn't hungry, but he nodded anyway. He was still dizzy and grabbed the sleeping bag from where George had dumped it on the ground. He used it as a pillow as he lay back. "I'd let you kill me, but I'm afraid you won't get any food for it. Unless you want to eat me." Lee wasn't too exhausted to waggle his eyebrows.

"You're overripe." George frowned, then motioned at the closest house. "Mind if I have a look? I'll be back in twenty. You can take a nap or something."

Lee hummed his agreement. A nap sounded great. Already half asleep, he heard George getting up and walking away. He lay there for long minutes, considering moving off the sleeping bag and crawling into it; he was cold. In the end, it was too much effort. It wasn't _that_ bad, he thought, shivering.

"Want me to cast a warming charm?" a familiar voice asked.

Lee coughed and forced one eye open. "Fred. What a nice surprise. Could you send me back home instead?"

Fred laughed and flicked his wand, warming the air around them with surprising ease. "Do you really think I can do that?"

"That's what George says," Lee answered. "Why d'you think we're on our bloody way to bloody London?" The warming charm made him stop shivering, but it didn't make him feel better.

Fred crouched down next to Lee. "Didn't you say he wasn't real? How would he know?"

Lee blinked at him. That made far too much sense. "Does that mean you can't?"

Fred blocked out the sun, casting a short midday shadow over Lee. He had a frown on his face. It had always been a sign that he was lost in thoughts. "You realise that you hurt him," he said after a while, completely ignoring Lee's question.

"Who?"

"George." Fred turned his head and looked at Lee. "You tell him constantly that he doesn't exist. That's not good for a man's ego."

"But he _doesn't_ exist. You can't hurt the feelings of your own imagination." And yet, Lee felt instantly guilty.

Fred nodded. "But if he existed - hypothetically - and you told him again and again that he does _not_ exist, what would you think would that mean for someone who has no idea who he is or where he belongs?"

Lee blinked tried to understand what Fred was telling him but he couldn't quite grasp it. There were too many 'what ifs' and too much hypothetical nonsense.

"I reckon I'll let you sleep on it." Fred got up.

Lee made another effort to keep his eyes open. "Can't you stay until George gets back and we can talk this through?" Lee thought that he should get up now and try to hold Fred back. Maybe he could wrestle him down and sit on him or do something equally heroic.

Fred chuckled. "I don't think so," he said and apparated before Lee could act on his plan.

*

When Lee woke up after a long nap, he felt marginally better. Upon seeing that George had returned, he told him the story of Fred's re- and disappearance in one long run-on sentenced rant, throwing it all at George's feet. He was outraged, frustrated, indignant, and all of that was tinted with the dark amusement that hadn't left him since he'd discovered the ear that should not be there. When he was done, he looked at George, waiting for a response.

George bit his lip.

"Oh, go on," Lee said. "I'd rather see you laughing than being hurt."

George snickered and then seemingly realised what Lee had said. "Hurt?"

Lee shrugged and watched George's face as he said, "Fred said I hurt you when I say you don't exist. Now I feel guilty. I'm the king of hurting you - real or not."

George shifted, looking uncomfortable.

Lee wasn't concerned. "I'm trying to help, you know? I've been trying for months. You're not well. You're bloody miserable. And I make you feel worse."

"Lee, I don't think-" George started, but Lee interrupted.

"I'm your friend, and watching you destroy yourself is bloody agonising. I can't just sit back and do nothing. It hurts like fuck that everything I do is making it worse and nothing I do is making it better. It's like I don't even count, y'know." He realised that he was ranting at his own imagination. Yet, it was liberating.

"Just for the record," George said, "You are going to regret every word you say. Don't blame me once we're back." He took a deep breath before he continued. "Now tell me what the hell you mean?"

Lee huffed. "What am I supposed to think when every time I come around, I feel like you don't want me there? You don't let me help. You don't talk to me. You miss your old life so much that you have no interest whatsoever in the one you have. I'm supposed to be your best friend."

"And what do you-" George tried but Lee didn't give him the chance to speak.

"I can't be what Fred was, but that doesn't mean I can't be anything at all. I try to be there when you need someone; I clean up your messes as best as I can. I make excuses to your friends and family, go shopping, haul your arse back from potion trips." Lee clenched his fists and dug his fingernails into his palms. His throat felt tight. "And in the end, it's still all about me. These things make _me_ feel better. It's just the illusion that I do something."

Lee paused and took a deep breath, trying not to cough and hurt his throat. "I'm not stupid. I know that you don't want the talking and the coddling and the company. It's been almost a year, and you don't give a fuck."

The helplessness was suffocating. More quietly, Lee said, "Tell me what I'm supposed to do because I don't know any more."

George looked over Lee's shoulder into the distance. "It's easier here," he finally said. "No expectations. I don't live above a dead shop with Fred's clothes still on the floor of his bedroom. How can I put them away when they're _Fred's clothes_? Here, there's no stain on the wall that I can't vanish because _Fred_ made that stain. Do you have any idea how hard it is to live with that stain? And it's from him so shouldn't I be bloody happy about it? No random people who want me to eat more, drink less, go out, clean, do stuff just so they can go home and say 'George is moving on'. How do I go about moving on when he's all around me? I'd rather get rid of myself than get rid of the last traces of him. You of all people know how close we were. How can I do anything when everything was ours and nothing was mine?"

George ran his hand through his hair and tugged at the strands. "I'm going to punch you for making me have this conversation once we're back," he said.

Lee waited for more, but there wasn't. "George?" he prompted. "What do you need me to do?"

"You know," George said, still not looking at Lee. "You're the only one who's still coming every day no matter how much I curse and rant at you." There was a pause. "Sometimes I want to strangle you. But maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

George looked up and shrugged. "Don't give me up yet. Sometimes I think I've almost figured it out." It was said matter of factly.

Lee would have given everything for hearing those words from the real George. _His_ George.

*

"If only we could find a broom." George, who'd been chipper the whole day - even after their conversation - was losing his momentum. "How far did we come today? Ten miles? Fifteen?"

"At the most," Lee said.

George cursed. "At this pace we'll need another week. Damn." He kicked a stone and sent it flying into the empty front yard of a three storey building.

"Excuse me for being sick," Lee snapped. He knew very well whose fault the slow pace was. He didn't need George to tell him.

"I excuse you for being a dick," George snapped back and scowled. "Now get your arse through the door. I'm not spending another night outside when there are walls and a roof."

"What about our rotting friends?" It was a dumb question. Lee knew it as soon as he'd asked. If there were Inferi in the area, they'd probably be safer in the house.

"At this point, I'll be glad about everyone I see - dead or alive."

Lee snorted. "Or made up." He pushed open the door, looking into a clean hallway. No stray shoes on the floor, no coats on the rack, no dirt on the threshold.

They went inside, inspecting the rooms on the lower floor with caution. It reminded Lee of his parents' house, the place where he'd grown up and that had been burnt down once the Death Eaters had attached a name to the voice behind Potterwatch.

This house was lovely, but like his parents' old house, it was missing something. Lee had never known what ' _something_ ' was - until he'd been at the Burrow for the first time. _Something_ was in the way he'd smiled in wonder at the crooked house; it was in the cosiness, in the loving chaos, in the smell of cake, in the warmth of hand-knitted jumpers, quilted blankets, crackling fire and hearty hugs. And yet, Lee missed the house where he'd grown up. He touched a framed photograph - not moving - showing a picture of a small boy eating ice cream. The child was happy, grinning and with sticky hands holding a huge cone. He missed his dad so much.

"Jordan!" George yelled. "Did you get lost?"

Lee followed the voice and wasn't surprised to find George, who possessed the uncanny Weasley ability to track down food, in the kitchen.

"You hungry?" George asked.

Lee shook his head. "I'll be a party pooper and find me a bed."

George pointed at him with a wooden spoon. "Sit and watch. I'll make soup."

Lee blinked. "You're joking, right?"

"He's not." Fred - as always appearing out of nowhere - sat down on one of the chairs, tapping his fingers on the rough surface of the table and grinning at Lee. "He's good at cooking. Never liked it, mind, but when required, he'll rock the pot." He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "Aren't you his best mate? Shouldn't you know that?"

"'s not like he's talking to me." Lee glared at Fred.

"Huh?" George looked confused. "Who's not talking to you?"

" _You're_ not talking..." Lee's voice trailed away as George continued to look utterly lost. "You don't see him, do you?"

"Who?" asked George while Fred still grinned.

Lee sat down as well and dropped his head onto the table. It hit the surface with a dull thump. "Fred's here," he said resigned. "He's sitting in the other chair and talking to me. He told me you're good at cooking."

"He's what?" George turned his head slowly, facing Fred and the chair. "Fred? Not funny, Jordan."

Lee lifted his head a couple of inches and let it drop back on the table. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Lee saw that George again glanced at Fred, then looked back at him. "Fred's not here."

Lee snorted. "Fred, say something."

"Sorry, mate," Fred said. "I'm afraid he can't see or hear me. I'm all yours."

"I don't want more unreal people. Go away." Lee sighed and lifted his head. The pounding behind his temples had intensified. "He says you can't see him."

"Thanks." George's tone was sardonic. "I'd have never known." George paused and filled the big pot he'd taken out of a cupboard with water. "So he shows up here suddenly and only you can see him." He put the pot on the stove, then grabbed an onion from the pile of vegetables he'd found in yet another cupboard. "He's talking but only you can hear him." George took a big kitchen knife, gesturing. "How's your fever, Lee?"

"Fuck you both." Lee stood up, sending his chair flying backwards. The noise was staggering in the otherwise silent room and felt sharp as a knife in Lee's skull. He winced, then turned around to go and find the nearest bed. Neither Fred nor George followed him as he stomped up the stairs in a fit of what he knew was childish rage. That didn't mean he'd have been able to stop himself.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Lee was out of breath. He cursed the stupid cold and went searching for the bathroom. He found it and found also a towel, soap, a toothbrush - how considerate - but no medication. He used the loo, splashed some water in his face, decided that the dirt was only imaginary anyway so he could skip the shower, went back out and entered the next room, delighted that he'd discovered the master bedroom. With a sigh, he plopped down on the big bed, forcing himself to pull off his jeans and jumper before crawling under the soft but thin covers in t-shirt and boxers.

Belatedly, he realised that he was thirsty. And cold. Lee shivered.

Too tired to get up, but too cold and thirsty to sleep, Lee lay in the bed, thinking about the mess he'd got himself into. He'd taken an experimental potion, believed in the words of a hallucination, decided to bath his head in ice cold water, almost let an Inferi kill him, and doubted his own sanity more and more. He had no idea what the real situation was. Was he sick back at home? How much time had passed? Was George caught in another version of this dream? Had this even started in the back of the shop or were his memories just as unreal as the rest?

Lee's head was spinning, and only part of it was because of the fever.

When the door opened, he was almost glad for the distraction. Lee opened his eyes. It was George, carrying a tray. He was alone.

"Did you order soup and water?" George smiled wryly. "Please, say 'no'. I'd love to use my wand to force it down your throat."

Lee's irritation melted away. "I think I love you," he said, his tongue as dry as sandpaper.

George put the tray down on the nightstand. "Is it my boyish charm, razor sharp wit or my ruggedly handsome face?"

"All of them." The soup smelled like something Lee thought he might be able to swallow. He sat up and took the glass of water, drinking the cool liquid in greedy gulps.

The soup wasn't bad. Lee ate half of it but gave up when his stomach protested. George took the bowl from him and started to eat the rest of it.

"Shouldn't you have your own bowl?" Lee asked him. "I'm sick, remember?"

George shrugged. "I already had mine."

The logic was as non-existent as the man himself, Lee thought.

"He was here, yeah? You saw him?" George asked after a few spoons.

Lee nodded. "Three times today."

George hummed and ate some more. "So why do you think he didn't want to talk to me?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Lee wondered if it would help to solve the riddle and bring them back home.

"Suppose not. Doesn't matter." The tone of George's voice implied that it mattered a lot.

Lee scooted down again, disappearing under the covers, pulling them up to his nose. He shivered; possibly his teeth were chattering.

"You cold? Want me to cast a warming charm?" George asked.

Lee huffed. "Typical. Only I can come up with a defective fantasy."

George groaned. "What now?"

"Aren't you supposed to be a bit more fantasy like? Offering to strip and warm me up with the heat of your body?"

A snort was the answer, followed by a charm.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

  
gone . six

Lee woke up with a warm body wrapped around him. George was breathing slowly and evenly into Lee's left ear, his chest to Lee's back, his arms wrapped tightly around Lee's middle, their bare legs tangled. Lee, still sleep-addled, smiled to himself, clinging to those few moments that lay between day and night, where awareness was foggy and life wasn't supposed to make sense.

"Aw," someone said.

Lee sighed and opened his eyes.

Fred was sitting on a chair, his feet propped up on the bed. Lee blinked a few times, settling back into the absurdity of the situation.

He tried to extract himself but gave up when George was unresponsive and refused to let him go. Not even the pattern of his breathing changed. "What's going on here?" Lee's throat was dry, felt scratchy, and his voice sounded as if it was coming from far away. Someone must have stuffed wet cotton down his throat, into his ears and into his sinuses.

Fred feigned indignation. "What? Not even a 'Good morning'?"

"Good morning." Lee wriggled, becoming aware of his sweat soaked shirt and his clammy skin. "What's going on?" George didn't move an inch. "Stubborn bastard," Lee added.

Fred smirked, looking pleased with himself. "George, here, had a rough night." He nudged George's knee with his foot; it was a gesture full of affection. "You were keeping him awake with all that shivering and talking fever-gibberish. He didn't know what to do. Warming charms didn't help." Fred waved with his hands. "He panicked a little bit - he'll deny it - and decided that your idea was a good one - he'll deny that even more."

Lee frowned. "Which idea?"

"Did you fry your brain?" Fred sounded exasperated. "George didn't know how to keep you warm. Voilà. One free fantasy hug for Mr. Jordan - as ordered. Brilliant how that works, isn't it?"

"You're mental."

Fred barked out a laugh. "That's rich, coming from you."

Lee gave him that. "What are you doing here?"

"Keeping an eye on you."

Lee nodded, giving up his struggle and instead sinking back into the comforting hug from behind. For long moments, he watched Fred watching them. "What are you _really_ doing here?" he eventually asked.

The corners of Fred's mouth went up into something that wasn't a smile and wasn't a grin, but something in between that looked like a mixture of amusement, melancholy and fondness. "Keeping an eye on him."

"Want to do him a favour?" Lee was getting impatient. "Tell us how to get home. End this. Or at least bring us to Diagon Alley."

"I would. But I can't." Fred leaned forward on his chair. "You're frustrating. You're stubborn. You're making everything so fucking difficult." For the first time, he looked as if he was about to lose his perfect air of nonchalance and coolness. "Help me, and I'll help you."

"Help you how?"

Fred leaned back again, looked at Lee, and looked at George. "Let him care."

Lee was at a loss. "Care about what?"

"About your stupid cold, for a start." Fred winked at him. "Thanks, by the way, your water stunt made that one easy."

Lee blinked, thinking that he must have missed parts of the conversation. "You made me sick so George can care?" Out loud, the conclusion sounded even sillier than it had sounded in his head.

"You made yourself sick. I just gave an itty-bitty shove in the right direction." Fred got up, walked two paces and turned around. "It doesn't matter if it's your cold, the fact that your dad still didn't turn up, or that mum came to the flat about four dozen times and George never opened the door." Fred walked back to the chair and sat down. "I don't care what makes him care, just make him care, and I'll take care of you." There was the self-satisfied grin again. "If I wasn't so brilliant, I'd have just confused myself."

Lee's brain was stuck on something Fred had said at the beginning of his little speech. "I never told him about my dad," he said after a pause.

Fred just looked at Lee, raising one eyebrow.

"I never told George," Lee said again. "We thought he'd come back, and when he didn't, I kept my mouth shut. 's not like we know what happened. Why share more bad news?" The wheels in his head were turning. "You can't be made from George's memory."

"The milkman, after all?" Fred leaned back in the chair.

"Fuck the milkman. _I_ must have made you up." That made sense, all things considered, and it was another piece of evidence that George wasn't real.

Fred snorted. "I missed you, Jordan. Do we have a deal?"

Lee shrugged. "Sure." He wasn't sure what the deal was, but didn't have the nerve to keep up a conversation with his own imagination. Nothing productive could come out of that.

"All right, then. Be a good boy, and I'll swish and flick you to Diagon Alley. George can figure out how to get you home from there."

Lee shook his head. "You're the strangest piece of imagination I've ever encountered."

Fred grinned and tipped his chair back, balancing on two of its legs. "Am I?" he asked. Then he winked at Lee, and an instant later, he was gone. He disappeared with a quiet pop that was nothing more than air filling the empty space he'd left.

Lee closed his eyes for a minute, cursing Fred for his hurting ears and the confused buzzing in his head. It became more and more difficult for him to keep both Georges apart - the one that existed in the real world but wasn't there, and the one that didn't exist, but could be heard and touched and felt. Lee wondered whether the difference even mattered. It was abstract, here in this world, where he didn't belong and where George - real or not - was the only constant.

Lee decided to worry about differences once he was back, and for now listen to his instincts. He reached for George's wrists with his own hands and wrapped his fingers around them, holding them in a tight grip. "I've listened to you sleeping for seven years," he said once he'd made sure that George wouldn't be able to easily pull away. "You suck at faking it."

George tensed and attempted to pull his hands away. Lee didn't let go. He pulled George's arms even tighter around himself.

If George had really wanted to get away, he could have done so; he was the stronger one of the two. But after some moments of tugging and struggling, George relaxed.

"Did you see him?" Lee asked.

"No," George said, his voice thick with sleep. "But I know he was here. I felt him. And I-" George hesitated, "-I almost heard him. Like he was here. Just out of reach."

Lee nodded.

"What did he say?" George asked.

"That you panicked because you couldn't keep me warm and decided that my hugging idea was a good one."

George huffed. "That's not true," he said; it was utterly unconvincing.

Lee snickered. "Fred said you'd say that. _I_ suspect that you just like cuddling."

George pinched him hard.

Lee pushed his elbow back, right into George's belly.

George tightened his grip with his left arm, grabbed the pillow with his right hand and used it as an effective weapon on Lee's head.

Lee retaliated by rolling and going straight for George's ticklish spot, low on his right side, just above the hipbone - the things one learned in a dorm.

They fought and snickered, rolling around the bed like school boys until Lee had a coughing fit and George said he'd accept surrender because of Lee's pathetic performance.

All in all, it was a good morning - possibly the best in more than a year.

*

Lee took a long shower, relaxing his sore legs and thinking that the pain in his ears had lessened a little bit. It also could have been his imagination. He laughed out loud when the absurdity of that thought hit him.

George banged on the door. "What are you doing in there? You're not touching yourself, are you? That can make you blind."

"That's just a rumour," Lee called back over the running water. "You'd not be able to see a thing if that were true."

*

"When are we going to talk about your dad?" George asked once they were seated at the table. Lee had made breakfast while George had taken his turn under the shower.

Lee froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. "My dad?"

George gave him a look that would have made his mother proud. "You do realise that I heard your end of the conversation, right? It's not like I just forgot what you said."

Lee put the fork into his mouth and chewed the slightly burnt pieces of egg.

"And I'm not going away just because you ignore me, Jordan," George went on.

"Worked before," Lee said.

"Not since you were thirteen and I caught you snogging that Hufflepuff bloke under the Quidditch stands." George stabbed his knife in the direction of Lee.

"Don't tell me you're still traumatised." Lee hoped that if he stayed off topic long enough, George would eventually forget. His attention span wasn't all that impressive.

"You're not trying to distract me, are you?" George put down his knife and fork and looked right at Lee, not letting him off the hook. "Because I'd really like to know what's going on and why in the name of Merlin you didn't tell me."

"You know everything already. My dad disappeared. That's it. You were there when I got the message."

"Don't give me that shit," George said. "That was before we went to Hogwarts. I thought he'd come back after the battle when people returned from Azkaban."

"No, he didn't. And that's all." Lee stubbornly continued to eat his eggs after adding some more salt and pepper.

"I've been living under a rock." George ran his hand through his hair. He looked as if he was starting to shout any second. But he didn't. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked after a while. "Why did you lie to me?"

Lee stared at his half eaten food, and then pushed the plate away. "Because you'd have told me it's not my fault."

"It's not your fault."

Lee looked up at him. His automatic reaction was to distract and derail and talk about something inconsequential. But Fred had said he should let George care, and why the hell not? Why shouldn't he lay it out for once and be done with it? Everything was happening in his head anyway.

"You're smart, George. Tell me. What do you think happened? We know that at the beginning of March, Death Eaters came to his office in the Ministry and took him away. Nowbody's seen him since. What then?"

George hesitated. "We thought they took him to Azkaban. They wanted to know where Potterwatch was broadcasting from. And they wanted to get you through him."

"Right. What then?"

"Nothing. He wouldn't have told them." George frowned.

"And then what?" Lee got up and poured himself a glass of water. "He didn't tell them anything. What did they do?"

George made a helpless gesture.

Lee rolled his eyes, sitting back down. "Don't be shy. I've thought about this for a year. Torture, prison, killing curse. Take your pick; your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he killed himself."

George had stopped eating as well. "You're the one who always says that Fred's death wasn't my fault," he said quietly. "So why's this different? You're a hypocrite."

"I'm not. Fred had a choice."

"So did your dad."

Lee snorted. "That's the point. He never had a choice. They took him, they interrogated him, and he never had a choice. And why didn't he have a choice?"

George shook his head. "Don't go there, Jordan. He supported Potterwatch. You talked to him before we started it. It was his decision to stay at the Ministry, and he wouldn't have-"

Lee cut him off. "Oh yes, I will bloody well go there. He didn't have a choice because I never told him where to find me. It should have been _his_ choice. If he'd wanted to talk, he should have been able to. But he had no clue. It was my decision that killed him. _I_ made the choice for him."

"You didn't. He wouldn't have said anything. It would have made no difference."

" _Would_." Lee hated the word. "It makes a difference to me."

George reached out and squeezed Lee's hand. "You're mental." He squeezed again and then pushed the plate with the rest of eggs back in front of Lee. "I bet it doesn't break when you throw it against the wall."

Lee stared at George. Then he looked down at the plate, picked it up and threw it with as much force as he could muster. The sound of the plate crashing against the wall and breaking into a thousand tiny pieces was satisfying. It was even better to see eggs and ketchup and grease smeared across the wall and the floor, making an angry, avant-garde statement.

"I bet that doesn't break either," Lee said, pointing at George's plate.

George grinned and picked it up, aimed for the same spot and threw. They watched more eggs, more ketchup and more shards complete the mess. "I hope they'll all go to hell," George said. His grin faltered as he turned back to Lee. "What else did you keep from me?"

*

They started walking late that day. Showering, eating, talking and packing had taken time. It was almost noon when Lee waved goodbye to the house that had provided shelter, food and interesting conversations.

"You realise the house can't actually see you when you're waving?" George asked, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Lee, who was waving to Fred now, not at the house, shrugged. "Can't hurt either. Maybe this is the house that's responsible for everything. Might as well make it happy."

"That's a reason to burn it down," George muttered.

Lee slung an arm around George's shoulders and ruffled his hair. "Look at you, all grumpy today."

George huffed but leaned into the touch instead of away from it. "Just tired. How ‘bout you? Any better?"

"Loads," Lee lied. He still felt sick as a dog, with hurting ears, thrumming head, cold sweat running down his back and the ever present exhaustion that was grating on his nerves.

"Uh-huh," George more grunted than said. Lee heard the disbelief nonetheless. "Just tell me when it's too much."

"And then what?" Lee asked.

George shrugged. "We'll figure something out."

"Uh-huh," Lee said, mimicking George.

They'd walked almost in silence for the better part of two hours, when George announced, "Gotta take a leak. Break for everyone."

"I love your bladder," Lee said. He thought that he wouldn't be able to go on for much longer. The fever and the pain, exhaustion and weakness that came with it, had grown stronger over the previous hour.

"Me, too," George said as he turned and stepped next to a midsized tree on the side of the road. "It's so practical."

Lee smiled upon hearing him unzip and then the unmistakable groan made of pure satisfaction as George released the pressure.

As the merry splashing sound subsided, Lee wanted to congratulate on the formidable length (of time), but was cut short when George cursed. "What the hell?" he said, then again, after a moment, "What the hell?"

"What?" Lee asked from his position on the ground. He didn't turn around, trusting George to tell him if there was something interesting.

There was a pause, and then came George's awed voice. "There's a broom. Firebolt 3-60 with aerodynamic racing twigs, sports handle and the new generation acceleration charms. Cherry wood."

Lee snorted. "If you didn't live like a hermit, you'd know that the new model isn't even out yet."

It turned out that the new model of the Firebolt - which wasn't yet on the market - was indeed in George's hand. Lee stared at it after he'd turned around. "Where did that come from?" he asked.

George shook his head. "I've no bloody idea. Leaned against the tree. I nearly pissed on it." He lovingly ran the tips of his fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the handle. "It's a beauty," he breathed.

Lee pinched the bridge of his nose, torn between wanting to admire the brilliant broom, demanding to know where it came from, laughing at the fact of the perfect solution presenting itself just like that, and calling Fred and screaming obscenities into his face.

He did none of the above. Instead, he waggled his eyebrows, got up and asked suggestively, "Gonna give me a ride, handsome?"

George looked up, grinning from ear to ear with the pure joy of a little boy who just found a new, shiny toy. "Clean your bum first."

They mounted the broom, George in front, Lee behind him. They'd flown like this many times, and while flying with George wasn't quite the suicide ride that flying with Fred had been, it was necessary for Lee to wrap his arms tightly around George's middle and sit close enough so he could hold on to him with his thighs as well.

"Ooh, Jordan, getting cozy."

Lee set a mocking kiss to the back of George's neck. "Survival strategy."

"Clever boy," George said and took off.

They ascended in an almost vertical line, the acceleration taking Lee's breath away. Straight towards the clouds, George headed, straight towards the sun that was lurking above them, casting a muted light through the thick mass of something that looked like cotton but couldn't be touched.

Lee held on tight and threw his head back, closing his eyes and inhaling the cold wind through flared nostrils. He loved riding like this, trusting George blindly, feeling safe behind the solid form of his best friend.

George flew like a beater. Straight lines, hard angles, sharp drops, unexpected rolls. Lee didn't know if the man had ever flown a curve or planned the next manoeuvre. George tested the broom, whooping as they dropped and nearly hit the ground. Only a sharp and immediate turn to the left saved them. All the while, George kept the speed as fast as he could while still holding the broom steady. Lee felt the muscles of George's stomach and arms hard like steel under the strain of the ride.

They were high up in the air, and Lee could see far ahead. When the first excitement subsided and he looked into the direction they were flying, Lee saw the town. It wasn't just another village, or something a bit larger. It was a real town, a big one. It was London - Lee knew it, even though this wasn't the real world, and this town even though large, was not the metropolis he'd grown up in. But it was a version of the city where they might find a version of Diagon Alley.

It was still far and would have been an impossibly long way to walk, but at the speed they were flying, they'd reach it in less than an hour.

He risked taking one hand off George to point. George nodded in return. And flew faster.

Almost an hour later, they were past the outskirts of the city and following the river, aiming for the Leaky Cauldron. Lee didn't know where it was located from this perspective, nor did he think that he could find it on the ground. Now that they were closer, he could see that this city didn't have much in common with the real London. The houses weren't big enough, the roads not broad enough, the expanse of the town itself not even close to the real thing. Not to mention that it was - like everything else they'd encountered - entirely empty. There were no people, no cars, no noises. It was eerie, and Lee hoped they'd find the entrance to the magical world soon - provided that there was one.

George kept flying to what Lee thought was the centre of the city.

The first wave - Lee didn't know what else to call it - hit them when they were only a few minutes short of their destination. It was like a sudden shove from behind - like a gust of wind directed at them with purpose. Lee was in no danger of falling, as he always suspected a sudden change of speed or direction when George was flying, and George had the broom steady in no time. Talking was impossible, so Lee squeezed to show George that he knew something was up.

George nodded again, shifting into a more stable position. The second wave was far stronger than the first one, and accompanied by a dull thump. The noise reminded Lee of what they'd heard in the woods when they'd been followed by something invisible. Back then it had been the noise of something big stomping on the forest ground - that couldn't be the case now, high up in the air over an empty city. Could it?

The strength of the second wave had thrown them off course, and George struggled to get the broom back under control. Lee wasn't too worried yet, holding on tightly, following George's movements with his own body to help him steer. George was an outstanding flier, and both of them had enough nerve not to panic.

The noise came back, and then again. The slow, deep thumping, that could be felt rather than heard, was unsettling. It was as if the air around them vibrated with a giant presence that loomed behind them. Lee resisted the urge to turn around - it could throw the broom off balance, and he realised that George hadn't turned around either. Lee's heart was starting to beat faster.

The next shove from behind was so strong that they were propelled forwards, tumbling in a series of loops that allowed Lee to see that there was nothing but empty air behind them. George was able to catch them, but not before they dropped almost halfway to the ground. And still the noise continued in its gut-clenching, vibrating sonority.

George accelerated, but didn't ascend. He flew just over the houses at breakneck speed, and Lee blinked against the sharp wind, straining to keep his eyes open, looking for familiarity among the buildings.

There was another shove, and they missed a chimney - which looked surprisingly magical in this Muggle area - only by inches. The thumping became louder, the sense of urgency greater.

"Go," Lee shouted against the wind. "Faster."

George wheeled the broom around, back on track. Lee recognised some of the buildings they passed, even if their arrangement seemed random, as if done by someone who'd been in the area a few times, but didn't know it very well.

"Hold on," Lee heard George yell.

A second later, they dropped, and at the same time, George swung the broom around _hard_. He'd turned right into a smaller road, only a couple of feet above the ground. Lee wondered whether this was a good time to start praying, as the intangible presence behind him became overwhelming. Every moment he expected to be grabbed and pulled off the broom. George must have felt the same; he sped up even more, racing down the street and turning once again - to the left now.

Lee was disoriented, but he recognised the Italian restaurant where they'd been a few times after they'd left Hogwarts. The thumping had grown to an almost constant drumming; Lee's heart was trying to match the rhythm.

And then he saw it, at the end of the road. It wasn't the Leaky Cauldron, but it was - without a doubt - the entrance to another world. There was a stone arch, overgrown by ivy. A pale light shone through from the other side, and it was wide enough for them to fly through.

The broom slowed down as they approached, as if George was considering whether flying through was a good idea. It was decided for them, as the presence behind them made its move and instead of pushing them, it sucked. Air rushed backwards, and Lee clung to George who'd reacted instinctively, throwing himself forward on the broom and urging it on.

There was powerful magic in the broom. It had been designed for professional sports, and it reacted that way. It withstood the sucking, jumped, and then flew despite the relentless pull from behind.

Lee's arms started to quiver, and he didn't know how George managed to hold himself on the broom. "Just through the archway," he told himself. "Just to the end of the street." He was hoping - and believing - that the thing wouldn't be able to follow, just as it hadn't followed them out of the woods.

Once again, they were thrown off course, nearly bumping into the wall of a house. But George was prepared and countered the move, swung the broom around in a way that made clear that he was indeed able to fly curves.

Into the archway they went, and once they were through, the sudden absence of the pulling force behind them made them lurch forward. The broom wasn't as fast with the weight of both of them as it would have been with only one flier, but it was still fast enough for the wind to cause tears in Lee's eyes. They were racing down the familiar alley far too fast.

George didn't seem to make a big effort to slow down. Maybe he feared the _thing_ that had followed them, even though Lee was sure it was gone. Or maybe George was just bloody nuts.

Lee tugged frantically at George's clothes as they came closer to Wheezes. The door loomed in front of them - and then it flew open. Lee ducked as they raced into the shop far too fast, still clinging to George, his eyes wide open, his heart hammering - there wasn't even enough time to yell.

George yanked up the handle with enough force to unseat both of them as they came to a sudden and violent halt in the middle of the store. Caught in their momentum, they were catapulted off the broom, skittered over the floor and crashed hard into the counter.

Lee had let go of George and put his head between his arms, making himself as small as possible. He acted on pure instinct as several - from the sound of it - heavy objects fell down around them and at least one shelf fell over. George was next to him; Lee heard him cursing. He reached for George and gripped tightly when he found his wrist. "You alive?" he asked, feeling the pulse of his best friend beating rapidly beneath his fingers.

"Fuck, _yes_!" George said and started to laugh.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

  
gone . seven

Day seven started with a luxurious breakfast.

"First time on a broom since before the battle, yesterday, wasn't it?" Lee asked, moaning at the taste of coffee.

"Yes," George said. His face was full of pleasure as he bit into a sugary muffin. They'd nicked it from the bakery across the street. There had been no people, but lots of things that were freshly baked and smelling divine. "Enjoy it?"

"I did," Lee said. "You?"

There was a pause before George answered. "Yeah."

*

"Any progress?" Lee poked a glob of goo that wobbled across the battered work table in the potion lab where George had been holed up the whole day while Lee had been sleeping upstairs on the couch.

George shook his head, blinking through the steam that emanated from a wide but flat-bottomed cauldron. "I'm trying to break down the potion and extract the ingredients."

They'd discovered the rest of the potion Lee had taken to follow George in the fantasy lab. Trying to wrap his mind around that concept was breaking Lee's brain, so he tried not to think about it. "Does that work?"

"No," George said, "but it gives me something to do." He tossed a small vial at Lee. "I brewed this, too. That'll work."

Lee caught the vial with a blue potion inside. "And that helps us back home?" The words were almost lost between fits of a barking cough.

George wrinkled his nose. "No, it makes you look and sound human again. And hopefully you'll stop sneezing on every surface that can't get away fast enough."

"Right," Lee said. "Thanks."

*

Lee lounged on the sofa, lying back with a bar of chocolate in his hand. He watched George eating curry - from the Indian place next to Gringott's.

"Do you think there'll still be food tomorrow? Still hot, still fresh, just waiting for someone to pick it up?"

George shrugged. "I'll eat it as long as it's available," he said without bothering to swallow first.

"This is fucked up. Fred said you'd find a way home."

"Why don't you ask _him_ how I'm supposed to do this? Why does _he_ know everything but for some reason doesn't want to show his face?" There was anger in George's voice, and underneath it, hurt. "I'll keep looking," he said.

Lee blinked at him, surprised at the defiance he saw. "Chocolate?" he asked, and offered his bar.

* * *

  
gone . eight

"What if we're stuck here?" Lee asked. He was sitting next to George on the counter of the shop, legs dangling and squinting against the morning sun that shone in through the windows.

George took a swig from his butterbeer before he answered. "Then we're stuck."

" _Stuck_ stuck?"

"If we're _stuck_ stuck, then we're _stuck_ stuck," George concluded.

Lee nodded. It made sense.

There was a long pause. They sat in comfortable silence, still looking out into the empty Alley.

"Think they'll miss us?" George asked.

Lee looked sideways at George. "I reckon." He nudged George's ankle with his sock clad foot. "I'd miss you." This version of George became more and more real for him. It couldn't be healthy, he thought.

George put his head on Lee's shoulder and took a deep breath. "I think I'd miss them, too," he said.

***

  
gone . nine

"This is not a good idea," Lee said, but followed George nonetheless as he climbed the impressive stairs of the huge stone building.

"Come on, Jordan. We're in a daydream. It might be the only chance we ever have to do this."

Lee glared at George who held the heavy door open for him. "It's _my_ daydream. Why aren't we doing what _I_ want?"

George gave him a look. "I admit that you're mostly good company, even funny sometimes. You're entertaining, reasonably fit, conveniently popular, and have the wonderful ability to stay calm in almost every situation." George made a heavy pause. "But your plans are shit."

"Right. And you're saying that breaking into Gringott's for no reason other than we _can_ is a good plan?"

*

"Admit that your plan was shit," Lee said two hours after they'd entered the wizarding bank and seven minutes after they'd come back to the shop, half running, half stumbling. He was kneeling in front of George, cutting open George's ruined, blood-spotted jeans.

George was leaning against the same counter they'd sat on in the morning and flinched as the cold metal of the scissors touched his shin. "Never," he said.

"Don't be so bloody stubborn." Lee folded back the cut fabric, wincing as he had to tug to get it out of the open wound on George's knee. George hissed, and Lee looked up concerned. "You all right?" he asked.

George nodded jerkily, biting his lip.

Lee put the scissors aside and gripped George's leg tightly with his left hand, high on his calf, just below the knee. "It's going to hurt."

"Just do it."

Lee concentrated on cleaning the wound first. He had to cast the spell twice - his magic was still not reliable. While the charm was too weak the first time, it was far too strong the second time. George cursed and trembled, but Lee didn't let go of his leg.

"It's okay," Lee said. "Squeaky clean. And it's not as deep as I thought it was." It was a lie; it looked as if George had offered his knee to a hungry dragon and not just fallen down on stones and glass while being chased by a squad of Goblin Inferi.

"Just do it," George ground out through clenched teeth. His hands were balled into fists, and his knuckles were standing out white.

Healing magic wasn't Lee's favourite discipline. While he had a knack for charms, he wasn't fond of the responsibility that came with it. His emergency skills were still trained, though. Once Kingsley Shacklebolt had joined Potterwatch, Lee had learned all sorts of useful things.

"Stop thinking of blokes in kilts and start working, Jordan." George sounded pained.

Lee grinned slightly and said, "Just concentrating. Hang in there." He ran the tip of his wand along the edges of the wound, slowly mending flesh and skin, careful with his spells even if that meant having to repeat them more often. "Keep still," he said as the muscles twitched and George tried to pull his leg back. "I'll stun you if I have to."

George huffed and hissed as the next spell was cast. "Always compassionate. Should have become a healer."

Lee chuckled, looking at the result of his work. It wasn't perfect, but it could have been worse. "I thought about it. But green's just not my colour." There were angry red lines where the skin had knitted itself back together. "Still got some of the magic healing lotion?"

George nodded and shifted as if to stand up. "There should be some in the work room. Where it's always been."

"Sit," Lee commanded and kept him from getting up with his hands on George's shoulders.

The corners of George's mouth twitched. "Bottom, left, blue jar."

Lee had already turned around and was on his way to the emergency potion cabinet. "I know. Just stay put," he called back over his shoulder.

He found the blue jar and was back within moments. The thick gel was cool to the touch as he scooped it up and rubbed it into George's skin.

George sighed with his eyes closed. "Why all the effort?" He asked. "You said - _ooh, that's nice_ \- I'm not real. Why not just leave me there - _ouch! Keep it gentle, man_ \- to rot?"

Lee looked up and frowned. "You're not serious, are you?" He resumed rubbing when George wiggled his leg impatiently. "We've been saving each other's arses since we were eleven. That doesn't change just because I won't be able to take this version of you home with me. Besides," he grinned, "I like you better."

George kicked him.

* * *

  
gone . ten

Lee was standing in front of a small cauldron, stirring a murky substance in carefully counted strokes. "What now?" he asked when the concoction changed from being liquid into a thick gel. "It did what you said it would."

George, who was standing in front of his own cauldron - thrice the size of Lee's - and who was still trying to brew something that would counter the effects of the first potion, held up his index finger. A minute later, he looked up and pointed to a shelf behind Lee. "Add what smells good."

Lee frowned at him. "Add what smells good? How's that going to help?"

"It's going to make it smell good."

"But how does that make any difference. I don't care how it smells."

George snorted. "You should. You're making lube."

Lee gaped at him. "You give me that little kid's cauldron, tell me that what I do is important and then make me brew _lube_? Seriously?"

The grin Lee got in return made his heart melt a little. "You were out of trouble and you learned something useful. Win-win," George said.

"How is it that you're so obsessed with my sex life?" Lee added vanilla and cinnamon, also a trace of pine.

"Just curious."

"U-huh."

* * *

  
gone . eleven

It was long past sunset, and they were sitting in the middle of Diagon Alley, a candle between them. Lee couldn't remember it ever being that dark. No window was lit, there were no lights on the street, and it was utterly silent. Lee shivered as a gust of wind blew cool spring air into his face.

George held his wand over the candle and muttered an incantation.

"It's not going to work," Lee said.

"I know," George answered under his breath, falling back into the incantation without leaving a pause.

"Then why are we doing this?"

George lowered his wand. "Same reason I've been trying to brew a potion, we tried to floocall someone, we turned the wireless on, and we tried to find the exit to Diagon Alley that somehow, miraculously, disappeared. Trying to summon Fred isn't the most insane thing we've ever done."

Lee snorted. "No, it's not."

"Now help me concentrate. You were the last who saw him. Try to focus."

Lee watched George go through the steps of the ritual again, and then again. It didn't work. Lee was getting bored and blinked up into the dark sky. "What _was_ the most insane thing we've ever done?" he asked. "I mean, we did a lot of stupid stuff. Like trying to summon all books with naked people in them in the library. Who'd have thought there were so many. Still, no reason for Pince to-"

"Fuck's sake, Jordan. Could you just shut up for a minute or two while I try this here?"

Lee was startled at the anger in George's voice. "Calm down. No need to be sore."

George put down his wand. "Sore? Are you kidding me?"

The look in George's eyes told Lee to keep his mouth shut. For once, he listened.

"This has nothing to do with being sore." George's voice was dangerously low. "This is me trying to call my brother. The one that died on me, remember? The one who was the other half of myself and now refuses to talk to me."

"But he's just part of the fantasy," Lee reasoned.

"How does that matter? He's Fred. I'm George. I don't care who's real and who's not. For all I know you're not real either. What's the difference? He doesn't want to talk to me. He went away and left me with nothing. And now he comes back and talks to _you_."

"Maybe he can't."

"'Course he can," George snapped. "He can see me and hear me. That's what you said. And why does he know so much if he's not in charge? Don't bullshit me, Jordan."

"I'm not trying to-"

"Just fuck off."

"That doesn't work in a world where only two people exist." Lee crossed his arms in front of his chest in an unconscious gesture of defiance.

"That works in no world," George muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lee wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

George threw up his hands. "You're like a big overgrown puppy, all bark and no bite. You're good at following people around. You've always followed _us_ around. And now that Fred is gone, you follow me. The minute it gets tough, you tuck your tail between your legs and whine. Don't you have other friends, Jordan? I'm starting to get sick of you."

Lee gaped at him.

"Have you still not figured out why I haven't changed the wards yet?" George's voice was bitter and cutting. "We set them together. I can feel Fred's magic whenever I pass through. It's the strongest bit of his magic I have left. You think you're important enough for me to get rid of that?"

"Well, fuck you, too, Weasley." Lee got up, kicked the candle so that it flew through the air and went out before it even hit the ground. Then he went back inside.

He heard George yell, "That's exactly what I'm talking about."

* * *

  
gone . twelve

They sorted it out in their own way.

Most of the morning, they ignored each other. Lee organised rolls and jam, George made coffee, they both took turns in the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. For lunch, George cooked pasta with white sauce. It was slimy but edible.

After lunch, George sent the plates flying to the sink, went to the booze cabinet and took out a bottle of Firewhiskey. It was still untouched as the only thing they'd drunk in the evening so far had been ale.

George opened the bottle and gave it to Lee. _(I'm sorry, yeah?)_

Lee accepted it, took one long gulp, felt the burning liquid flow down his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped, his insides on fire, and he shook his head before he looked at George and gave him the bottle back. _('s okay. I'm sorry, too.)_

They emptied the bottle of Firewhiskey with single-minded determination.

*

"So what _was_ the most insane thing we've ever done?" George asked, slurring his words. They were now in a little pub on the northern end of Diagon Alley. After finishing their bottle of Firewhiskey, they'd walked down the street, entered this place, and raided the bar. They'd found some real treasures and lined them up on the counter.

Lee had tried the tequila and decided he liked it, even if it made the world spin a little. He looked up from his efforts to peel off the label. "The most insane thing _I_ 've ever done was trying to fuck Katie Bell."

George blinked at him, and Lee grinned proudly.

"Katie Bell?" George's look of confusion was amusing. "I didn't know she was a man."

That struck Lee as one of the most hilarious things he'd ever heard, and he collapsed in hysterics. "She's no man. And we both decided that a hug was far less trouble than fucking."

George groaned. "If you were any more gay, you'd shit glitter."

Lee pointed with his bottle, spilling half of its content. "If you were any more of an arse, you'd shit...". He frowned. "You'd shit _shit_."

George laughed so hard that tears ran down his cheeks.

* * *

  
gone . thirteen

George held Lee's head and kept the long knotted hair out of his face as Lee leaned over the toilet and got rid of what was left in his stomach. It was hard to decide whether the stench or the colour was worse.

"I'm going to die," Lee rasped pitifully. "I'm not going to survive this."

George made a disgusted noise. "Don't be a baby. You've been through this before. You'll survive."

"I won't. And you're going to-" Lee broke off mid-sentence leaned over the rim of the toilet and gagged.

"I'm going to make fun of you and make sure you won't forget this morning," George finished for him. "I've no idea why I'm doing this."

Lee groaned, hoping that the thick, yellow liquid George had given him would start working soon. He felt like an Inferi looked. "You're doing it because you're a softy." He leaned back, wiggled, tugged, pushed until he could place his head on George's lap. "And because I've done this a hundred times for you."

George grabbed the towel he'd drenched in cold water and put in on Lee's forehead. "Don't play the martyr, Jordan. I've done it just as often."

"After the last year I've got a head start." Lee moaned at the heavenly feel of cold cloth.

George rubbed the back of Lee's neck, his other hand keeping the wet cloth in place. "I can make you a fish sandwich to repay you for your efforts. With mayonnaise sauce. And maybe a glass of milk."

Lee whimpered. "I hate you so much, Weasley."

*

  
gone . fourteen

Lee didn't blame the sofa for the fact that he'd spent another night with hardly any sleep. The old tattered cushions were comfy and big enough for him to lie back without having to worry about falling off. The problem was that his brain seemed to start talking itself into overdrive whenever Lee wanted to get some rest.

He was sitting on the kitchen worktop, his legs dangling, and his heels thumping against the cupboard beneath in a quiet, steady rhythm. Time went by even if the only thing Lee did was staring at the wall above the sink. The morning sun would soon light up the small kitchen and start another day. The fourteenth day since he'd left the real world if he'd counted right. Fourteen days; it was unbelievable. What if they really were caught forever?

There was the soft sound of bare feet on the floor. It was George, hardly more than a shadow in the darkness. He walked over to Lee and leaned against the worktop, his hip touching Lee's thigh. For a long time they were side by side - George standing, Lee sitting - before George said, "I'm sorry."

Lee turned his head and looked at the silhouette of George's profile. "For what?" he asked.

George shrugged. And when he spoke, his voice sounded small in the darkness of the night. "Lots of things. Starting this. Trapping you." His voice was getting quieter. "Not being a real friend. That Fred died. That... I don't know. Everything."

"Hard night?" Lee asked.

George shrugged again. Lee reached out and wrapped an arm around George's shoulder.

George took a shuddering breath. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said. "He wasn't supposed to die, and we weren't supposed to end up here." He ran a hand through his hair, and when it fell back down, it landed on Lee's thigh. "I didn't mean what I said." George turned around and moved until he was standing in front of Lee, between his legs, both hands on his thighs. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Lee said. After a moment of consideration, he wrapped his arms around George, pulling him closer.

"What are you doing?" The words were whispered more than spoken. George's breath tickled Lee's ear.

"I'm trying to cuddle you better."

"'s not gonna help."

Lee rubbed his hands up and down George's back. "It's not going to hurt either, so take it like a man."

George shook with what Lee thought was laughter and sadness all at once. That was okay. It was something they could deal with.

George pressed his face against Lee's neck as if to hide from the world. He didn't fight the embrace or the way Lee was still stroking his back. Lee felt George's arms come slowly around his waist. "It's not gonna help," he said, tightening his grip and grabbing the back of Lee's shirt with both fists. "It's too big. It's not gonna help."

"We can try." Lee spoke with a soothing voice, even though his throat and chest felt tight. "Maybe it'll work and maybe it won't. But I think we're out of options."

George coughed wetly. "What d'you mean?"

"We tried drinking, fighting, yelling, hexing, drugs, and ignoring." He paused. George was shaking now, and clawing at his shirt. "Let's give it a try."

"You're wrong. It's gonna hurt and-" George wanted to say more, but he couldn't fight the broken sobs that shook his whole body.

Lee kissed George's temple and then pressed his cheek against it. "It'll get better. Hang in there."

He kept repeating those words over and over, rubbing George's back, holding him very close and tight and trying to give as much comfort as was possible.

*** 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

gone . on

Lee ran his hand down the smooth wood of his broom, glad that they were outside and about to do something. George was already hovering a few inches above the ground, prepared to explore the parameters of their world. They were trying to find a physical exit instead of only concentrating on potions and magic - and drinking.

The scene in the kitchen less than an hour earlier, had drained Lee. Never again did he want to hold a sobbing George and tell him everything would be all right some day, choking on the lie but repeating it until both of them believed it. They'd given up on the grief, at last, too exhausted to keep trying to wade through it. It had only been the first step - and no matter how much he'd hated it, Lee knew that sooner or later, they'd be back at that place, and he'd hold George again, if George let him.

And once he was back home, he'd start all over again with the real George. For now, though, home was an abstract thought, just as _real George_ was an abstract concept.

"Are you waiting for better weather?" George called down, flying lazy circles above Lee's head.

Lee looked up into the dark and clouded sky. "I don't think this will go away. This is someone's idea of a joke."

George dropped down far enough to smack the back of Lee's head. "Everything will be brighter if you smile a little."

Lee scowled at him. "Which idiot cast a cheering charm on you?"

The wind started to pick up as soon as Lee left the ground. They headed off to the gate where they'd entered this version of Diagon Alley. As expected, though, the gate was gone. The same stone wall they'd already encountered a few days earlier was there instead.

Lee gripped the handle of his broom tightly, wishing he'd thought of putting on gloves. It was getting cold, and his fingers were freezing. George flew a curve, coming close to the edge of the airspace over Diagon. Under normal circumstances, flying in that area was strictly prohibited. There were heavy fines on breaching the invisible border between wizarding and Muggle world in a city like London where they'd be spotted as soon as they were over Muggle roads. They were unconcerned; there were no people to spot them, and no Ministry to fine them.

As it turned out, there was no passing through to Muggle territory either. Lee at first thought that George slowed down on purpose. But when George not only slowed, but stopped, cursing and trying to go on, it was obvious that George wanted to fly - but couldn't. Seconds later, Lee was there as well, and he experienced what had made George stop. It was like flying into a soft, elastic cushion. He strained against the invisible barrier that held him back until his muscles quivered and he almost lost his grip on the broom.

It was futile. No matter how much he pushed, the cushion didn't budge. With this realisation, he relaxed. Instantly, he was catapulted backwards, almost falling off his broom with the force of the blow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw George roll and use the impetus of the elastic cushion to zoom in Lee's direction. By the time Lee had regained his balance, George was already below him, looking up and grinning.

"Smooth, Jordan," he yelled over the noise of the blowing wind. "D'you think we'll ever be able to go flying without me having to watch your clumsy arse?"

"I was just testing your reflexes," Lee countered. "They seem fine."

George opened his mouth to answer, but any retort he had was stopped in its tracks by the first heavy drops of rain. He cursed. So did Lee.

Lee dropped down to hover next to George. "Is this a variation of the invisible monster that chased us in here?"

"Reckon so." George turned in a slow circle on the spot, scanning the sky in every direction. "This looks like a thunderstorm in the making."

"Colour me surprised."

"As if you need more colour," George said with a grin that reached from ear to ear.

It took a moment for Lee to catch on. He wasn't used to George teasing him like he'd always done - surprising, witty, rarely with bite, but most times in bad taste. He tugged on the handle of his broom and caught George with one arm around the middle as he let himself fall to the side, taking George with him, tumbling through the air. They hadn't done this in years, and the last time they'd wrestled in mid-air, Lee had broken his left arm. He didn't care. As they struggled in a ball of flailing limbs and childish glee, Lee laughed and so did George. It was a sound so rare that Lee would frame it if it were possible.

Before they could hit the ground, George grabbed Lee and pulled him up, stopping their fall and preventing them from hitting cobblestone. Lee hadn't noticed that they were already that far down.

"What do you think you are doing?" George asked half exasperated, half laughing, his wet hair clinging to his face, rain pelting down on him.

"Trying to teach you some manners," Lee answered. He wiggled out of George grip and brought some distance between them. "Hopeless. I give up."

"You almost killed us, pillock."

"If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it on a broom. Besides, who knows, maybe dying's the way to go. Home, I mean."

George snorted. "Definitely a way to go." The grin on his face faltered; he grew serious and contemplative.

Lee's heart started beating faster, and he reached over to touch George's arm. There were times when he wanted to cut off his own tongue for always running faster than his brain could follow. "Stop right there," he said. "It was a joke. Don't you even start thinking about it." George stared at him, his eyes unfocused, and Lee could see various emotions flickering across his face. "Stop it," Lee said again. "It was a fucking _joke_. It's not a way out."

A clap of thunder drowned out the last words. George started at the sound, shaking his head. "'Course not," he said before turning his broom around.

Lee wanted to talk this out and shake some sense into him; the idea stood between them like the proverbial pink elephant. But the wind was blowing, the rain was falling, and the storm was coming. It wasn't possible to have that conversation on brooms, and George took advantage of that fact.

Lee fought against the wind, flinching whenever thunder disrupted the steady sound of falling rain. He counted the seconds between lightning and thunder while he flew to the left of George's tail in a wide curve around the wizarding quarter. George kept them always in contact with the elastic wall that held them captive, looking for a weakness in the invisible construct. There was none.

They had made it from one end of Diagon Alley to the other in half a circle, when the time between thunder and lightning dropped to less than two seconds. Lee could almost taste the energy-charged air. He flew faster, and once he was next to George, he gestured at him to break this off and go back. George shook his head, indicating that they'd complete the circle first. He yelled something that was lost in the storm.

Lee shouted at the top of his lungs, but George accelerated. Instead of turning around, he flew faster. Lee followed.

It hadn't seemed possible, and yet, the weather got worse. Lee was hunched over his broom, squinting and trying to make out the surroundings through the heavy rain. The wind was icy, blurring his vision further. They were almost there, coming closer to the point where they'd started.

Had he thought about it, Lee would have realised that taking one hand off the handle of his broom to reach for George's jacket wasn't a good idea. He didn't know the broom; he wasn't a good flyer; the weather was dangerous. He didn't think about it, though. He reached out because the last streak of lightning had seemed so close that Lee would have sworn that he'd felt it crackle through the air.

Lee leaned forward to close the gap between them. There was a moment when he was unbalanced and his weight was off the centre of the broom. Later, he would reflect that the gust of wind that blew him off his broom had been waiting for that moment. It had lurked in the shadows and watched him. Then it attacked - and it won.

The tips of his fingers touched the rough fabric of George's mud green jacket. Then Lee fell, his other hand sliding off the rain-slick handle once he was unseated. The fall was long enough for Lee to yell and realise that this was going to end badly, but not long enough for George to react in time and save Lee from hitting the ground.

In the split second before the impact, Lee felt the unmistakable sensation of magic washing over him. It was a charm or a hex - in any case it wasn't enough. Lee landed hard.

The lights went out.

*

The slide back to consciousness was rough. It was freezing and wet; Lee was in the same spot where he'd landed. The force of the Ennervate that brought him back was strong enough to make his stomach churn. Hands on both sides of his face shook his head, and he opened his eyes not because he wanted to, but to make it stop. The pain in his left hip and shoulder was excruciating.

"Stop that," Lee muttered. George was leaning over him, his eyes wide with worry, grime on the side of his face. He was bare chested, and when Lee looked down at himself, he saw that George's shirt was wrapped around his arm, just below his shoulder. That was where the pain was coming from. Lee wondered where the jacket that he'd tried to touch had gone.

"Shut up, don't move, and try not to kill yourself," George ordered. He ran his wand over Lee's arm, his hand shaking so badly that he couldn't draw a straight line.

Thunder growled in the distance, and Lee realised that the rain had stopped. He moved his head to the side, groaning at the sharp pang that travelled down his spine.

George put his hand again on Lee's face, turning his head back up. "What part of 'don't move' was unclear?"

"The part where I'm taking your orders." Lee's breathing was unsteady as he spoke. He felt as if a Hippogriff had chased him from Diagon Alley to Hogsmeade - and got him.

George moved his hand from Lee's face to his forehead and left it there, keeping Lee's head in place as he tried to mend his shoulder. "I wanted to stop the fall, but the only thing I managed was to slow you down at the last moment. Not all that good, my reflexes."

George looked frantic. He pushed back his wet hair, and then tried again to heal Lee's shoulder. "I don't think anything's broken. You fell on your side." He was talking fast between casting charms. "Went out like a candle. Minutes ago. Slept through at least a dozen charms." He prodded Lee's shoulder, and Lee bit back a groan even as he realised that it was hurting less.

George bit his lip and muttered something Lee couldn't understand. Then he looked Lee in the eyes and said, "Where's it hurt? Did you hit your head? Are you okay? Hell, Jordan, say something!"

Lee would have laughed if George hadn't looked sick with worry. He was pale and shivering, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. "Just following orders," Lee said, reaching up with his right hand to touch George's wrist. "I'll be all right. Just-" he flinched as he tried to move and his hip told him in no uncertain terms that it didn't approve. "Just do something about my hip and I'll be good to go."

"You're far from good to go, and you know it."

"I survived falling off a broom once or twice before." Lee was tempted to take the wand out of George's hands and cast the charms himself.

"Yeah. You're talented like that."

"You're freezing," Lee said.

George frowned, seemingly puzzled. Then he looked down at himself. "I'd rather deal with another cold than..." He didn't finish the sentence.

Several charms later, Lee was able to move his leg. George's assessment had been correct. Nothing seemed to be broken. It hurt, though. It hurt a lot. Lee needed help to sit up long enough to make it through the short ride to WWW.

He sat in front of George, with George holding him against his chest, knowing that he wouldn't have been able to walk all the way back to the flat, but not liking it at all. Lee squeezed his eyes shut as they took off, humming to himself and trying not to focus on the flight or the soreness. There was sour bile in the back of his throat, and by the time they landed, Lee's fingers were numb to the point of cramping from gripping the handle.

George touched the ground as gently as possible, letting go of the broom as soon as he was standing, holding Lee upright.

"Let's try and tackle those stairs," George said, moving to Lee's uninjured side and supporting him as they walked through the door of the shop and past the empty, dusty shelves. "One after the other."

It was exhausting, but they made it upstairs, both of them panting by the time they reached George's bedroom.

"If I'd known that a simple fall off a broom is enough to get off the sofa and into the bed, I'd have done that days ago," Lee said, attempting to distract himself and George from the pathetic groan that escaped him as he sat down on the bed.

Warmth washed over him.

"Why do your warming charms work and mine don't?" Lee asked.

George shook his head. "No idea." He cast a charm on himself as well, his hair changing colour as it dried, droplets disappearing from his bare chest. He opened the closet and grabbed a jumper. There was an F on the front. "It's random. Everything here is random."

He sat down next to Lee who avoided moving as much as possible. "What now?" Lee asked.

"Now I'm going to undress you. And for every obnoxious comment you make, I'll poke you where it hurts."

Lee groaned again when he lay down. This time, it was more relief than pain. "Obnoxious? I'm not the one who's using an unfortunate accident as an excuse to molest his helpless friend."

George poked Lee's hip.

George's shirt wrapped around Lee's arm was the first to go. There was blood on the inside and more blood on Lee's clothes. After George had helped Lee out of his own torn shirt, they saw that the wound wasn't deep but wide. The healing charms had closed it. Several angry red lines were left and bruises from shoulder to elbow.

"I'd really like to punch you in the face right now," George muttered as he charmed away the blood and summoned the jar of bruise paste they'd already used for mending his knee. His hands were still shaking, and his face hadn't regained its colour.

"Go ahead if it helps. Just heal my nose if you break it. I like the shape."

It was the wrong thing to say. George flinched. He got up, sending the jar of paste flying through the air. It broke as it fell down on the floor. George turned his back on Lee, but from the line of his shoulders and the way he moved, Lee saw that he was struggling to keep himself from running.

Lee was silent for long moments, the harsh sound of George's heavy breathing resonating between them. "I'm sorry," Lee finally said.

George tensed. "Don't."

"Come on, George. I fell off the broom. It's not like I did it on purpose."

George turned around. "Don't you think I know that?" He came back to the bed and sat down hard enough to make Lee's hip protest. "You can't do that." He stared at Lee as if willing him to understand. "You can't go out there and fall off the broom and hurt yourself. Or worse. I made you go flying in that weather. It would have been my fault. Again."

The pain in George's eyes was raw. It was a tangible thing, thick and vile, and Lee's breath caught as he was dragged into it, beginning to understand how painful the wound still was.

"It's just some bruises," he said. "I've had millions of those. So did you." He reached out and put his hand on the back of George's neck. "I'm clumsy as fuck on a broom and probably would've fallen off in any weather." He squeezed and shook George gently. "Now get me out of these jeans. I've got hundreds of jokes in stock for that occasion."

George collapsed and let his head fall on Lee's chest. "You poofy bastard."

Lee smiled, stroking George's head and holding him close to his chest. "That's my boy."

*

George was still pale and looked fragile - something that was wrong in more ways than Lee could count - but after twenty minutes of Lee's constant chattering, he seemed more exasperated than anguished.

"Yes, right there," Lee said, wiggling until George's hand moved a fraction to the right and hit where it hurt the most.

"Tell me again why you can't do that yourself," George asked, half frowning, half smiling.

"'Cause I'm hurt and sad and lonely, and I'm taking full advantage of your guilt." Lee flinched as George's palm moved across the spot where his skin stretched thinly over his hipbone. He wasn't convinced that there were no broken bones, and he hoped George's salve was worth its reputation.

"Hurt and sad and lonely. More like lazy, self-pitying and in dire need of some flying lessons."

"That, too." Lee looked up at George. "You all right?"

George nodded. Then he was silent. Then he shook his head, breaking eye contact but never stopping the soothing movements of his hand. He ran the fingers of his other hand across the red lines on Lee's shoulder. "That'll scar."

Lee shrugged with his uninjured side. "Makes me look heroic and dangerous. Blokes like that. I'll invent a cool story with dragons and knives and saving an innocent child."

George touched the thick scar on Lee's belly that had been there for more than a year. "It makes you look scarred."

"Admit it; you like it," Lee answered.

George stopped touching Lee. He closed the jar with far more care than was necessary, and then wiped his fingers on his jeans, staring at a spot above Lee's head.

Lee was confused at the sudden change of mood. "Am I missing something?"

"Reckon so." George got up and turned around. He went back to the window. It was getting late in the afternoon. Sun was breaking through the still heavily clouded sky, and it smelled like rain, wet and rich.

"Let's pretend for a second that I'm not omniscient and that I can't read your mind," Lee said.

George's shoulders shook; Lee hoped it was with laughter, but he couldn't tell; there was no sound.

"D'you notice how different we are from just a few days ago?" George asked. "If you'd told me that the two of us alone together would survive fourteen days without killing each other, I'd have laughed at you. And how sad is that? We've been best mates forever, and I'm here and surprised that I enjoy it."

Lee knew what George meant. "We lost it for a while," he said.

George nodded, still facing the other way. "Is it just me?"

Lee thought about this. "No," he said. "Not just you."

"You've been a grumpy bastard. I like the old you better."

Lee reached for the pillow and threw it even as he groaned because it hurt. "I'm not grumpy, you moody, sulking sod."

George turned just in time to be hit in the face. He threw the pillow to the side and came back to the bed. "You think it'll stay that way once we're back?"

"Has it ever been that easy?"

Sighing, George stretched out on the bed, rolled to his side and propped his head up on his arm. He played the tips of his fingers over the bruises on Lee's side.

Lee wished he was wearing more than boxers, not knowing what to think of the awkward tension between them.

"Do you ever think about the time when we were sixteen? What could have been?"

The words were unexpected, and Lee didn't know how to answer. He was stunned into silence, and the moment stretched. "It's not the time for that," he said, because something _needed_ to be said, and he reached down to pull George's hand away. "Don't do that."

The air was growing thin, or so it seemed, as George turned his hand and tangled their fingers. This was going too far, even for this particular fantasy that - Lee was sure now - was never going to end. He'd be stuck forever with George who wasn't quite George but so close that it hurt.

"Give me one reason not to," George said, rolling closer so that Lee could feel the warmth of George's body against his side.

"It didn't work when we were sixteen," Lee said, his voice dropping to a whisper as George still came closer.

"That's a crap reason." George pressed his lips against Lee's collarbone, and they were soft enough to almost break Lee's resistance.

He tried again, though. "I've only ever seen you with girls since then."

"That reason is even worse."

Lee closed his eyes. He felt George's lips move from his collarbone up his neck. "You've not shown any interest whatsoever since we were bloody sixteen."

"That's all you got?" George said just before he covered Lee's lips with his own.

Fleeting thoughts went through Lee's head, most of them dealing with the fact that this was his own screwed fantasy. While his mind was distracted, his body opened to the kiss. It remembered the touches and the taste. It didn't resist when George parted his lips, and it shivered when, uninvited, George's tongue crossed the border between them.

Lee remembered the stolen moments, their first kisses, and their mutual decision that they liked their friendship easy and without complications with the power to break it.

Warm breath tickled Lee's cheek. Gradually, all thought went away, and what was left was the soft, wet touch of George's tongue, the slow kiss that was overwhelming in its sweetness and playfulness. It tasted and felt like the George he'd fallen for. Nothing about this kiss was bitter or careless; nothing about it was even remotely resigned or apathetic.

As George nibbled on his bottom lip, Lee grinned and slid his uninjured arm around George's waist. He squeezed George's arse through his jeans and got a breathless chuckle for his efforts.

Maybe it was because it felt right to do this, or maybe it was because they both hadn't been laid in weeks. In any case, they were both naked before either of them could question why this was happening, and why it was happening so fast.

There was no room to think between George's mouth and George's hand that held Lee's erection in a tight grip. It slid up and down, slicked by home-made vanilla-cinnamon-pine lube. Lee reached out to explore, wincing when the simple movement put pressure on his injured body parts.

"Take it easy," George murmured against Lee's lips as he shifted, making it possible for Lee to touch him. He adjusted and slowed, guided by the sounds Lee made. Positioning himself half over Lee, he straddled the unharmed leg without putting any weight on him. George propped himself up with one arm braced over Lee's head, and Lee admired the play of muscles, kissing the freckles on his shoulders.

After all these years, George still remembered that a thumb lightly touching the head of Lee's cock would drive Lee insane, that Lee liked when George rolled his balls in his hand, and that he couldn't help but moan when George pressed just _there_.

Lee came first, but George wasn't far behind, spending himself on Lee's belly. Their lips were still joined, and when Lee opened his eyes, he looked straight into George's. They broke the kiss, grinning.

Lee wiped his hand on the sheet and tucked a strand of hair behind George's ear. He looked at the freckled lobe and traced the shell with his thumb. "I wish you were real," he said, sadness welling up inside him.

There was a moment of silence. Then George punched him.

The position prevented the worst - or maybe George had pulled the punch. The fist hit Lee's jaw at an awkward angle, not causing much damage, but hurting nevertheless. Tears were blurring his vision as he opened his eyes, neither from crying nor from the pain but simply from the impact of the punch.

George was already standing and pulling up his jeans. His face was full of rage. The last time, Lee had seen him like this, Molly Weasley had suggested cleaning up Fred's room and turning it into a guest room.

"I'm sick of it." George pulled a t-shirt over his head. "I'm sick of all the people who want to change me." In an eerie imitation of his mother's voice, George said, "Don't drink so much. Reopen the shop. You have to go out. Fuck a nice girl, Georgie. Fred would have wanted you to laugh."

He was getting louder, and Lee tried to sit up. His vision was still blurred. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean-"

"Shut the hell _up_ ," George roared. "You of all people should know me. You should know better. What do you think? That I'm going to kill myself? Did you ever think that I don't have a magic button that I can press to make myself whole again?"

Lee struggled to his feet, reaching for his boxers.

George pointed to the bed. "How can you say I'm not real after what we've just done? You're a pathetic idiot. You want me to move on, but the moment I try, I can't possibly be real because the _real_ George is a wreck, and the _real_ George isn't fun, and the _real_ George is nothing without his brother who is dead."

It was bloody torture to pull up his trousers; Lee's hip and shoulder screamed terror.

"You know what? I'll do what they want. I'll move on. Right now. You better pray that you'll get back to your own world soon, Jordan, because there won't be much left of this one when I'm done with it."

George pulled on his boots, grabbed his wand and stalked out of the room. Lee cursed and followed George, foregoing luxuries such as shirt or shoes or wand. He hobbled down the stairs, worried at the thumping he heard, tasting blood, throbbing all over and feeling as if he'd danced with a troll.

He arrived at the foot of the stairs just in time to see George fill a seemingly bottomless bag with experimental explosives. "What are you doing?" Lee asked. "Whatever you plan to do, we should talk about it."

"I'm done talking," George said without looking up from what he was doing. "Get out."

"Why?"

"Get out _now_. It's going to get hot in here."

Lee felt sick when he realised what was about to happen. "You're angry," he said, trying not to panic. "Think this through."

"I'm done thinking. You want the old George? Surprise! The old George is back, and he likes to blow things up." George grabbed the bag and walked towards the door. "If you're not outside in ten seconds, I'll summon you and dump you on the street outside. Don't count on a soft landing."

"George, wait," Lee called, but George neither looked back nor stopped. He just walked on, the bag slung over his shoulder. The late afternoon sun shining in through the shop-window made the scene look dramatic. There was a golden aura around George's dark figure as he left the building, and Lee had to blink against the blinding light. Slowed down by his hip, Lee limped after George, slowing but not stopping when he stepped into Diagon Alley. The ground was cold and wet beneath his bare feet, and the wind had picked up again.

The bag made a clunking sound when it hit the cobblestones. George bent down and flipped it open; he hadn't bothered to close it properly. He took out a small wheel and twirled it around his fingers. It was an elegant, nimble movement that he'd practiced and perfected over the years. It was supposed to look nonchalant.

"Do you know what it's like when there's one person left, and the person stops believing in you?" George turned his head to look at Lee. His gaze was steady.

"I never did that," Lee said and took a step toward him.

George threw the wheel into the air and caught it easily. "It's like watching the person you love most die all over again." George threw the wheel again and caught it in his left hand. "And again."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

It was a lie, and George saw right through it. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, and he reached up with his right hand to take his wand that he'd tucked behind his ear. "Don't worry, Jordan. Memories falling into a cauldron, potions gone wrong. Bullshit. That was just a distraction from the real question."

That didn't make much sense to Lee. He frowned, trying to understand what George was saying. "What's the real question?" he asked to gain some time.

George twirled the wheel and let it dance over his fingers. "The question is 'What would Fred want me to do'. Everyone seems to suddenly know what dear old Fred wants. Except me, of course. Who am I to know that?" Sarcasm was dripping off George's voice.

"He'd want you to move on," Lee tried.

George snorted. "Did you read that in one of Lockhart's books? 'How to Handle a Grieving Twin, Volume Two'? Mum's read the same book." The grin was still there, and George's voice hadn't lost its bite. But now tears were running down his cheeks. "I don't give a shit what Fred wants," he shouted. "I won't answer that question, because I can't. He's not here." The wheel was flashing in different colours as George threw it into the air one last time. He caught it and gripped it tightly. "Fred's dead. And I want an explosion."

With the last word, George pulled back his left arm and threw with all the force and precision of a beater. The wheel made a whizzing sound as it soared through the air. George shifted his weight, pointed his wand, and at the exact moment when the wheel smashed the shop window, he cast a spell.

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and the flat above the shop exploded.

The sound was loud enough to shake the ground. Lee lost his balance and fell to his knees, instinctively covering his ears and making himself as small as possible despite the pain in hip and shoulder. He grabbed George's wrist as he went down, pulling him to the ground as well. The change in temperature was instant as the very air seemed to boil. Rubble rained down on them, making frightening noises, and Lee wondered if George had stayed so close to the explosion on purpose, where the risk of getting stoned by debris was high.

The question was answered when George next to him chuckled. "You can stop playing hedgehog, Lee. I cast a shield. Contrary to popular belief I'm _not_ trying to kill myself."

Lee exhaled and chanced a glance from behind his arms. "Could have fooled me."

George stood up and offered Lee his hand. Lee took it and let himself be pulled up. "Where are your shoes?"

Lee looked down. He was standing in between rubble. "They're burning. Like my wand." He ran his hand over his hair. "Feel better?"

There were flames now, leaking from the debris of the house, coming out of glassless windows and emerging from where the roof had been. They looked at it, entranced. Small explosions from inside shook the remaining structures. George didn't answer the question; Lee didn't repeat it.

"Nice work," someone said behind them.

George turned around at the familiar voice. He didn't look surprised at seeing the face that was so like his own, minus the soot and grime. "Just in time for the big show."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," Fred said.

They were looking at each other, identical expressions on their faces. Lee took a step backwards, feeling like an intruder.

"Did you figure out what I want yet?" Fred asked.

George grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I just blew up your life's work. What makes you think I care?"

Fred laughed. "I _don't_. I'm not real."

"I'm not real either," George said and nodded at Lee. "Ask him."

Fred didn't take his eyes off his twin. "Maybe Lee's the one who's not real."

George shook his head. "If you had a never-ending fantasy, would you include him?"

"Point," Fred said. He wrapped an arm around George's shoulders and touched George's forehead with his own. "Blow it all up; I don't give a shit."

George swallowed. "I know," he whispered.

"I can't stay."

"I know."

"You can't stay either."

George nodded; his words were barely audible as he said again, "I know."

"You can't keep using vanilla scented lube. It's just bad taste."

George laughed and closed his eyes, forcing tears to spill down his cheeks. "I know," he said. "I miss you."

Fred hugged him. After a long moment, he let go and stepped back. "I know," he said.

George's smile was sad. "You won't come back."

Fred shrugged and smiled back. "Never say never." He winked at Lee before he turned around. "Take care, Jordan. And next time, if someone punches you, punch back."

He turned around and walked towards the burning building without looking back.

And there it was, the tugging deep inside Lee’s guts, vertigo that made the world look lopsided. The light was fading.

Lee grasped George’s hands, not ready to let him go. He tried to shout something, but there was nothing coming out of his mouth.

George just stood there, staring at his burning existence and at his brother who was walking through rubble and debris, surrounded by fire. There were dirty streaks down George's face, left by tears - but his eyes were dry now.

Fred had reached the place where the door had been. There was nothing left but a black hole filled with angry flames. He grinned and waved, mouthing something that George seemed to understand. George laughed and waved back. And then Fred smiled one last time and turned around, walking into the building. The ceiling of the second floor gave way. The building collapsed in itself. It was crumbling and dissolving.

And then, everything was gone.

*** 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is the state or quality of being real. But what is real? And more importantly, what is _not_ real?

  
back and gone and on. long.

The pair of jeans that covered Lee's legs was clean and without holes. He wasn't wearing the tattered ones he'd pulled on before he'd watched Wheezes go up in flames. He wasn't barefooted. He wore a shirt, and his wand that he'd left in a burning building was lying next to him on the floor, as if it had never seen a single flame.

George's hand was clammy. Lee let go of it as he realised that his shoulder was throbbing with the dull rhythm of his heartbeat. His back hurt from sitting on the hard floor for what felt like a long time. His stomach was rolling; his eyes were stinging; he was dizzy with disorientation.

Reality had looked brighter when it had still been an illusion.

The backroom of George's shop - not burned down - was the same as the one he'd entered weeks earlier and where he'd found an unconscious George. As if woken by the mere thought, there was stirring on the couch behind Lee.

"You okay?" George asked. His voice sounded scratchy.

Lee wondered how he was supposed to answer. It was impossible. He closed his eyes, wishing childishly that it could make him disappear.

George prodded Lee's shoulder.

Lee flinched and said, "Just stop it, George." He was tired and exhausted. "It hurts."

"Still?" There was more rustling as George sat up and slid off the couch to sit next to Lee. "You're still hurt?"

Lee laughed quietly.

There they were. Back in their old clothes, back in the old shop, no grime on their faces, no come on their bellies, but Lee's body remembered; and George remembered, too. "You've been real, after all," Lee said.

"Yep."

Lee rubbed his hand over his eyes as if he could hide behind it. "I'm glad you punched me. I deserved it."

"Yep," George said again.

There was nothing Lee could say to that. He couldn't think of an apology that would suffice or an excuse that would make it better. Instead, he offered, "Go on and poke me. Hip hurts more than shoulder."

George nudged him. "I don't like hurting people. Not even you."

"Then I got nothing," Lee said.

"How 'bout we fix you so I can yell at you without feeling guilty?"

As long as Lee didn't have to move, he'd appreciate some healing. "Sounds like a plan," he said. "Charm me up."

"No." George did the unthinkable: He got up. "We'll go to St. Mungo's. And if I hear one complaint, I'll get your mother."

Lee blinked as he thought about his mother for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. "My mother," he said. "I need to floo her. I just disappeared for two weeks. Oh _God_. She..." His exhaustion was forgotten; Lee struggled to get up. After what had happened to his dad, he didn't want to think about what his mother had gone through while he'd been away. She'd probably contacted everyone from the Aurors to Kingsley Shacklebolt himself.

 _Hang on._

Lee, standing now and using George's shoulder as a crutch, looked around. "No one's been here."

"The wards are set," George answered. But he was frowning as well.

"Come on. As if your family wouldn't be able to come in here if they really wanted to. Two curse breakers, a dragon tamer, two Aurors, Ministry connections, and Merlin knows what else. They had two weeks. Don't tell me they wouldn't have turned every stone the minute they found you missing."

"Time's different," George said, still frowning as if trying to remember how it all worked.

Lee sat down on the sofa with a grunt. "We should find out how big the difference is."

"Stay here, I'll be back in a minute," George said and left. He was too fast for Lee to reply.

Lee closed his eyes again, and with nothing to distract him, the exhaustion came back. He dozed off, snoring softly, the lines on his face relaxing.

"Hey," George said and nudged Lee awake. "You can't sleep through the big revelation." George looked pale around his nose; the freckles were a good indicator.

Lee yawned. "And the big revelation would be?" He was wary.

"We've been gone for less than a day. We spent the night cozied up here, and now it's around noon." George sat down next to Lee. He stared at his knees, voice wavering as he said, "Isn't that great? Like it's never even happened. All made up. Nothing real."

Lee swallowed a bout of hysterical laughter that built up high in his chest. He was only half aware that he'd grabbed George's hand. "It was real. We were both there."

George pulled his hand away. "Yeah. Of course," he said, not meeting Lee's eyes. "And now we can just forget about it."

"What if I don't want to forget?" Lee asked.

"Then you're a fool." George gripped Lee's unharmed arm and pulled him up. "Let's go."

"No, wait. There's no-"

George apparated them both without further discussion. They arrived at the busy reception area of St. Mungo's a moment later.

Lee was dizzy from the unexpected transportation and unsteady on his feet. George ushered him into the elevator. Years of product invention, product testing and handling dangerous explosives had given him enough experience with St. Mungo's to be able to navigate to the right floor and healer without having to talk to the Welcome Witch.

"What are we going to tell them?" Lee asked.

George pressed the button, and the elevator went upwards with a merry tinkle.

"Like you said. There was a dragon and a knife, and you bravely saved a child. They won't believe it. But if you back me up, there's nothing they can do."

Lee snorted and then winced. "And what if I won't back you up?"

"Suit yourself. Tell them you were lost in a made up reality for a couple of weeks. I was there, but I wasn't real, except I was. There was Fred who is dead but appeared out of nowhere a few times. There were Inferi, self preparing food, invisible forces. You had a flying accident that somehow never really happened, but the injuries are still there. Then I punched you in the face after we had sex. Which was good, but boy do you suck at sweet talking after the act." George gave Lee an exasperated look. "Honestly, I'd go for the story with the dragon."

Lee perked up at the only thing that seemed important. "The sex was good, eh?"

"Do me a favour and shut up for a month or twelve," George said, and then dragged Lee out of the elevator that had opened its doors to reveal a busy hospital hallway.

Half an hour later, Lee was drugged and pain-free, and he signed the papers that allowed George to take him home. The healers had repaired muscle and sinew damage. Only one bone had been slightly fractured; a couple of potions and a few days of rest would take care of that.

They took the elevator back down. Lee felt drunk and enjoyed the mellow wobbling of the world around him. He wasn't sure how they got to his tiny, tidy one-bedroom flat, or why George was undressing him yet again, but lying down was nice, and his bed was lovely and soft. He made a mental note to ask for that potion next time he was at St. Mungo's. The stuff was better than Firewhiskey.

When he woke up, he was alone, and his head hurt. The magic potion didn't come without a hangover, and thus, he decided, wasn't as shiny as he'd thought. Lee staggered to the small bathroom, avoiding looking into the mirror. He didn't want to see.

Lee went through his bathroom routine, his mind filled with images and memories of wild flights over a deserted town, of waking up with George wrapped around him, and of being cared for and nursed through the last hangover he'd had.

He stepped into the shower, remembering what they'd done on their last day before George had blown up the shop. It sent a shiver through him and made him ache in a way that had nothing to do with falling off a broom.

Lee changed the temperature with a whispered word, gasping when the water that came down on him went from hot to ice-cold in an instant. It chased the thoughts away, and it numbed the soreness in hip, shoulder and in that place he couldn't locate.

When he was dressed in boxers and an almost clean t-shirt, he talked to his mother through the fireplace - the only luxury he'd not wanted to live without - making sure not to flinch every time he shifted as he knelt, and making sure to turn his head so she wouldn't see the swollen side of his face. She didn't ask - maybe because as a Muggle she'd never really got the hang of using magical communication. It was hard for her. She hadn't just lost her husband of twenty-three years; she'd also lost the magic she'd become used to during their time together.

His boss was the next person Lee flooed. She accepted the apology for missing his shift when Lee explained that he'd had an accident and had been at St. Mungo's. It wasn't a lie, but Lee felt that he didn't deserve the genuine worry he heard in her voice as she told him to stay at home for the rest of the week.

The rug in front of the fireplace was soft. When the calls were done, Lee rolled to his back, wondering what George was doing, and why he'd just left. The thought was insistent and wouldn't go away. As he lay there on the rug, looking up at the ceiling, feeling the wool against his palms and bare legs, Lee couldn't think of anything else that mattered.

What if George decided that he'd liked the explosion?

Lee unconsciously shook his head and started to move. His muscles protested, but he didn't listen.

What if George was doing something stupid in an effort to move on?

Lee rolled over to his bed and pulled his bag out from under it. Then he got up and filled it with random clothes, put on a pair of jeans that was as tattered as the t-shirt he wore, found socks and boots. By the time he was ready to go, he'd talked himself into a frenzy.

What if George had already done something stupid? Why would he have brought Lee to his own flat and not to WWW if he hadn't planned anything?

Lee cursed under his breath, hoping that the time he'd wasted sleeping, calling people, lying around and then packing hadn't made the difference between being able to stop George and being too late.

The crack of apparition rang through the room. Lee disappeared with his bag and his worries, concentrating on George's living room. In his haste, he left two fingernails behind.

He arrived, clutching his bag, wincing as he saw his left hand and remembered how easily apparition could go wrong.

"It's rude and inconsiderate to apparate into another wizard's home uninvited. Didn't your mum teach you any manners?"

Lee struggled to keep his balance while looking around for the source of the voice. He found George in the kitchen, sitting at the little table with a quill in his hand and an empty sheet of parchment before him.

Lee exhaled, trying not to choke on relief. His bag fell to the floor as he sagged against the wall.

"What?" George asked, frowning.

"Nothing. Just thought you blew up the place," Lee said.

"So that's why you come barging in? Clever, Lee. Apparating into the middle of an explosion."

That thought hadn't even crossed Lee's mind. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Not blowing anything up. You can go back home now and do what the healer told you to do. Lie down and don't harass others." George rubbed his eyes. He looked tired and worn, much like before they'd left and lived through an adventure.

Lee picked up his bag. "Do you mind if I use your couch for a nap?" He limped over without waiting for the answer and sat down.

"Yeah, I mind," George said while Lee healed his hand as best as he could.

"Just checking." Lee lay down and kicked off his shoes.

"Lee, what are you doing here?"

Lee repeated what someone else had said not long before. "Keeping an eye on you."

George scowled, and Lee saw that he was close to losing his temper. Lee wasn't fazed. _"Let him care,"_ Fred had said. Lee didn't know if 'pissed off' was a way of caring, but he supposed it was better than indifference.

"I'm trying to-" George started but interrupted himself. "Look, just leave me alone for a while. We've seen enough of each other lately."

Lee nodded. "And we'll see more of each other from now on. I just moved in."

"No, you didn't," George said. He appeared to be calm, but Lee knew him better. He watched his oldest friend through almost closed eyes, sighed contentedly and wriggled into a comfortable position on the couch.

"D'you have a beer?" Lee asked, knowing that he was toeing the line. But they'd been _better_ , and he was desperate, and maybe all it took was being less understanding and more obnoxious, or more understanding and less obnoxious, which was more or less the same thing just from a different angle. They needed that different angle; the old one hadn't worked.

George looked at Lee as if he was struggling with the same thoughts. Emotions flickered across his face: sadness, anger, frustration, exasperation. He looked hollow, and when the corners of his mouth moved, the smile didn't reach his nose, much less his eyes. "You have the constitution of a house-elf. A beer on top of those potions would make you puke all over my sofa."

George was trying. Lee swallowed against his tight throat. He was glad that his eyes were almost closed and George couldn't see them. "At least I don't _look_ like a house-elf," he countered.

"At least I don't _smell_ like one," George said, crumpled up the empty parchment and threw it at Lee's head.

"At least I look good in a pillowcase."

"That why you're wearing one?" George's answer came without the slight pause that had preceded the others. It was automatic. It was familiar. It was a petty insult and a cheap shot, and Lee couldn't remember the last time he'd heard something that beautiful.

*

Physical wounds were easy to heal, and the soreness that was left disappeared within days.

Other wounds were deeper, harder to find. There was no easy remedy.

Three days after Lee had moved in, George sat at the kitchen table, a quill in his hand, a blank piece of parchment before him. An empty glass next to a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey emitted one last whiff of smoke.

"What are you doing?" Lee had asked the same question three evenings in a row.

"Not blowing things up," George said for the third time. It was always the same answer.

"Hungry?" Lee opened random cupboards.

"Why d'you ask? You force me to eat something no matter what I say." There was a little smile hidden somewhere in George's accusation.

"Your mum would be so proud of me," Lee said.

"Not if she knew the smell of your socks."

Lee ignored him and sighed at the emptiness of the kitchen. He was hungry. "I'll go and get some food. Wanna come?"

George shook his head.

Lee hadn't expected it to be easy - that's what he told himself. But in reality, he had. Shouldn't it be? They'd been through hell and back, fought a war, fought themselves, fought a fantasy. Shouldn't they be done fighting? Shouldn't this get better after what they'd been through? Hadn't that been the whole point of their adventure?

The questions rattled through Lee's brain as he stood in the open door with a bag of groceries in one hand and a smaller bag of hot food in the other, staring at George who wasn't sitting at the table anymore but lying in the middle of the living room, gagging. Both bags fell to the floor, where they tore open and spilled what they'd held.

Lee rushed over to George who threw up, the rug soaking up the foul stench of the almost liquid contents of George's stomach. It smelled faintly like beer and rum. Bile rose in Lee's throat, and he tried not to throw up himself. With a flick of his wand he got rid of the mess. The rug still smelled, and it would keep smelling for the rest of the day - Lee knew it from experience.

"That means a cold shower for you," Lee grumbled as he picked up a weakly struggling George and dragged him to the bathroom.

With angry movements, he undressed George, threw sweaty clothes into the corner of the room.

"I've been gone for less than an hour," Lee said. "What happened?"

George wasn't helping; he lay on his back on the floor, giggling as Lee pulled off his jeans. "Who's taking advantage now?" he said, his words slurred. He pointed at a place to the left of Lee. "Knew it. You want into my pants. 's the only reason you're here."

Lee snorted, grabbed the naked - and far too thin - George around his middle and hauled him up. "'Course. I come home, find you drunk and probably drugged, vomiting all over the floor, and the only thing I can think of is your shrivelled cock. Glad to hear you haven't lost your confidence." He pulled back the shower curtain and shoved George inside. Warm water started to flow automatically. It was a nifty spell, and Lee knew how to turn it cold.

George yelped.

"What happened?" Lee asked again.

"Nothin'," George said. Lee heard the anger. He used his body to keep George from getting out of the shower. Cold water was good for him, Lee decided, feeling more and more like George's mother. He hated it.

"Tell me what happened."

"Nothing," came George's anguished reply. "Absobloodylutely fuck-a-pygmy nothing. Not a bit. I keep tryin' but there's nothing. I'm empty. Like the bottle. Did you buy more booze?"

Lee stopped the water and pulled back the curtain. George stood there like a wet kitten, dripping and shivering, looking old and resigned. He wobbled.

"What are you talking about?" Lee asked and handed him a towel.

It fell to the floor when George didn't hold on to it. "'m talking about Wheezes. Tried to come up with something. Anything." He made a big gesture and grimaced as he almost lost his balance. "Nothing."

Lee blinked. "You tried to invent something?"

George nodded.

"What?" Lee asked.

George shrugged. "Dunno. Can't think of anything. I'm out of ideas." Naked as he was and still unsteady, he stepped out of the shower. Water dripped onto the floor as he walked past Lee into the bedroom, plopped down on the bed and pulled the covers over himself.

Lee watched him fall asleep, dried him with a charm and put a bucket next to the bed. He closed the door behind him when he went back outside. The groceries were lying on the floor; oranges had rolled under the table; spilt milk had made a mess; eggs were cracked.

*

The sofa was exactly the same as the one Lee had slept on in the other world. It was colourful and comfy, and the cushions were big and plush and perfect for when there was no bed available. He'd slept on it more times than he could count. Since the day he'd left Hogwarts, he'd been a regular guest at WWW. He thought of this sofa as _his_ sofa more than he thought of his little flat as _his_ flat. And yet, he couldn't sleep.

He was back in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, his heels thumping against the cupboard below in a slow and dull rhythm. It was a different kitchen. It was a different world. He was a different man. But the worries were the same, and they kept him awake.

George hadn't stirred once since he'd gone to bed the previous evening - proof of how drunk he'd been.

Lee waited until the sun came up, and then made tea. He found hangover potion, and took both to the bedroom.

There was a groan when he opened the door.

"Morning, sunshine," Lee said and put tea and potion on the bedside table.

"Hey," George said. "You're still here." He looked up at Lee through puffy eyes. His hair was a tangled mess; his pillow lay next to the bed.

"You know me. I'm stubborn. I'll hang around until you let me into your pants."

George groaned again and closed his eyes. He pulled the covers over his head and his words were muffled as he said, "I was hoping I hadn't said that out loud."

"You did."

"Any chance we can pretend I didn't? I'd obliviate you, but I don't feel like I'm up to it right now."

Lee sat down. Then he reconsidered and stretched out beside George. "Thing is, you weren't far off the mark."

George turned his head to look at Lee, re-emerging from under the covers. The expression on his face was an almost comical mix of confusion and understanding. "You're just here because my underwear fascinates you?"

Lee made a face when he smelled George's breath. "Do us both a favour and drink some of that tea."

George snickered and followed the advice. Then he took Lee's wand - he wasn't able to spot his own - and cast a quick charm. "Back to my underwear."

"This talk would be easier if you were wearing any."

"This talk wouldn't be necessary if you _weren't_ wearing any."

Lee exhaled. "I'm not here to start anything. You're too messed up even for my taste." George huffed a half-hearted complaint, but Lee ignored him. "I'm just letting you know that my thoughts aren't all that pure."

George rolled to his side and blinked at Lee through thick eye-lashes. "Like what?"

The effect wasn't as strong as it would have been without the puffy eyes and wrinkles from the sheet on George's cheek, but the slight shrug of one shoulder made the covers fall down and reveal George's chest, and that _was_ effective.

Lee knew when he was being manipulated. Two could play that game. He rolled to his side as well so that they were front to front. He came close without letting his body touch George's. His skin prickled where he could feel George's body heat, and Lee tilted his head to press a soft kiss on George's lips. George didn't move, but he sucked in a breath. Lee lingered with his eyes closed, the tips of his fingers itching to touch. He intensified the pressure of his lips, touched George's bottom lip with his tongue.

When George opened his mouth to kiss back, Lee pulled away. He cleared his throat. "Like that," he said.

Lee had meant to tease. But he realised that it had backfired, and the joke - that hadn't been a joke to begin with - was on him. He got up, not looking at George. "Any chance we can pretend that didn't happen? I'd obliviate you, but I don't feel like I'm up to it right now."

George stared at him, dumbfounded.

"All right then," Lee said, wiped his hands at his jeans and left the room.

*

More than an hour went by before George emerged from the bathroom, dressed and looking like a human being.

Lee was holding a letter and waved it at George. "They're gonna throw you out if you don't pay rent soon," he said without preamble. "Are you planning on re-opening the shop?"

"Why, Jordan, don't skirt around issues. Just come straight to the point, why don't you?"

Lee shrugged. "No reason not to talk about it."

George sat down on the sofa, pushing Lee's pillow to the floor. "Why do you never talk about your dad, then?" he asked.

Lee put the letter back on the table and walked over to the sofa. He stood behind it with his hands on the backrest. "Because not talking about my dad won't get me thrown out of the flat."

"Just maybe it does," George said, looking up at him. "Let's make a deal. We talk about your dad, and then we have breakfast, and then we talk about the shop."

Lee hesitated. He wasn't going to be blackmailed into talking, and he wasn't going to defend wanting to help George. His dad had nothing whatsoever to do with the issues at hand. The situation with his dad had no resolution and no exit; it was just there. Talking would only make things worse. Lee shook his head. "I don't like your terms. Either talk to me or don't. Up to you. If you want to throw me out, go ahead."

"Look at you in all your glorious hypocrisy," George said. His voice was soft and he sounded tired. "It's getting more complicated by the minute here." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Stop trying to be my mother. I don't need a second one, and you can't compete anyway. I'm trying. I open my eyes in the morning and I miss him. I keep breathing, but every second of the day, I miss him. I close my eyes at night, and I miss him."

Lee bit his lips, not wanting to interrupt him. George talked in a matter-of-fact tone that made things even worse.

"I'm trying, Lee," George said again. "Do you think this is easy just because we had some great adventure? I'm breathing and living. That's all I can do."

George's fingers closed tightly around Lee's wrist. Lee winced and followed the tugging. He climbed over the backrest and sat down next to George.

"I'm trying," George said. Then he was silent for a long time, and just as Lee decided he was supposed to say something, George opened one eye. "The least you can do is get naked and do some consolation work."

Lee wasn't sure if the noise that followed was a sob or a snicker. He supposed it was a little bit of both. He shook George's hand off and wrapped his arm around him. "Why now?" he asked, pulling George close so that his back was against Lee's chest, and Lee could hug him from behind. "We've been joking and teasing, but we managed just fine all this time. What changed?"

George swallowed; he was trembling just enough for Lee to feel it. "Don't make me say it. I feel like a traitor for even wanting it."

"I can't follow your thoughts," Lee said. It wasn't the truth, though; he had an idea where this was going.

"'Course you can follow. But you need me to say it." Lee nodded with his cheek against the side of George's head, and George continued. "Tell me again why it didn't work between us."

Lee cleared his throat, resisting the urge to untangle himself from George and this conversation. "We decided not to risk our friendship."

"I'm not a radioman; I'm a potion maker. You need to be more precise," George said.

"We weren't ready to risk breaking the two of us," Lee said reluctantly, giving George the starting point he needed without touching the issue. He wasn't ready for that.

George snorted. "No," he said. His voice was quiet but determined. "That's not true. It's what we told ourselves when we were sixteen. But it's a lie. And you know it."

Lee closed his eyes. "George-"

"Shut up and let me say it. We'd have risked it. We believed - true or not - that we could have worked. But we weren't two. We've never been two until recently. And we were _not_ ready to risk breaking the three of us."

Whoever said that words couldn't hurt was a fool. Lee hid his face against George's neck, wondering how George was able to voice these things.

"So if you ask me what changed, Jordan, my answer is obvious." George's voice was so quiet that Lee could hardly hear him. "Fred's dead," he said. "There are only two of us, and it's foolish to keep living as if we were still three." He took a deep breath. "We can't pretend nothing changed. I tried. It almost killed me. Hell, it almost killed _us_." George reached up to slide his fingers into Lee's long dreads. "We can risk it now."

"But how can we do that?" Lee asked. His lips were touching George's skin. Resisting had been easy when there had been a clear understanding between them, a reason and a decision they'd both followed. Now, it was impossible.

"How can we not?" George asked back. There was a hint of breathlessness to his voice. "Unless you're not interested anymore."

Lee laughed softly, and George shivered at the breath tickling his skin. "Interest is not the problem," Lee said.

George pushed back against him. "What's the problem? That loser you were seeing? How serious is that?"

"You know how not-serious that is. Don't tell me you're jealous." When there was no response, Lee pulled back. He looked at George, watching his profile. "You _are_ ," he said, half amazed, half stunned, running his hand through his hair, catching George's hand in the process. "How can you go from zero to one hundred within days?" Lee shook his head when he saw George's raised eyebrows. "Yeah, I know, it's what you do. Just... Give me a moment to catch up."

"You heard Fred talking about the lube? That's as much permission as we'll ever get." George tangled their fingers.

"He wasn't real," Lee said. His lips were back at George's neck, and he drew in a sharp breath when, as if by accident, their joint hands landed in George's lap. He let himself explore, seek out the warmth and trace outlines.

"He wasn't real, huh? How sure are you about that?" George asked. He arched his back, making a throaty sound when Lee squeezed him through thick denim.

Lee was close to losing control. The scent of George, the feel of him, the taste of him was overwhelming. "Very sure," Lee whispered, opening the button of George's jeans and pulling down the zip.

"You still don't get it, Jordan," George said just before Lee's fingers found their way into his bright yellow pants.

Conversation ceased to matter.

*

There was something about cold water that was soothing and numbing. As it ran down Lee's face in rivulets, tugged at his hair, gathered at his nape, it made the world appear clear and easy. His dad had always said that there was magic in cold water. His eyes had twinkled, so Lee'd never known if he'd been talking about real magic, or if he'd just meant the way it made one feel. Just another thing Lee'd never find out.

With that thought, the moment of clarity was gone.

He grabbed a towel and roughly rubbed himself dry. A charm took care of his wet hair. He remembered how much trouble it had caused not being able to do that one simple act, and he smiled humourlessly.

George was still in bed, still sleeping.

Lee looked up into his own face in the mirror but averted his eyes quickly; he couldn't stand it.

Something about this situation was utterly wrong. They couldn't just go and fuck, and expect everything to work out. They'd land on their backsides hard as soon as the novelty wore off. They weren't stable enough to soften the blow. They'd break. Lee didn't want to think about what that would mean for either of them. At this point, Lee needed the friendship just as much as George needed it. Or maybe he needed it more.

Or maybe he was the only one who needed it, said a nagging voice in his head.

What he didn't need, was a quick shag. Lee had done without it for years, and he'd gladly keep going without if that meant keeping George as a fixed point in his life.

Lee chanced another glance at the mirror, and then summoned random clothes from where they'd been dropped on and around the couch. The crease in Lee's forehead grew softer, and the tension in his shoulders eased when he remembered how they'd ended up naked and sweaty, making it to the bedroom only afterwards. He caught himself before he could follow that train of thought for too long, hoping some fresh air would help him to regain clarity.

It was crisp and cold outside, more so than he'd expected. They'd spent two weeks in spring, and now Lee was startled every time he left the flat and found himself in the middle of winter. Lee pulled his coat tighter around himself, blinking against the cold wind. It was late morning, so the pubs weren't open yet. There was a coffee shop down the Alley that was too posh for his liking. The Leaky Cauldron was open, but at this time of the day, it was like a train station with people passing through from the Muggle side of town in a constant, trickling flow. Lee didn't want to meet anyone he knew.

The only places he could think of that could provide some warmth and anonymity were the various bars in Knockturn Alley. They were dark and dingy, and open around the clock.

Lee crossed the street and turned left into Diagon Alley's naughty sister, shivering as he passed Gringotts and remembered their encounter with the Goblin Inferi. He still wondered what would have happened if one of them had died there, in the dark tunnels and endless passage-ways. The world had been almost too real to have been fake; the people in it; the injuries he'd taken home.

There was a heavy wooden door, and above it a sign in a language Lee couldn't read. He'd been there before, and knew that it was a pub full of smoke and grumpy people. He'd fit right in.

He blinked for a moment when he pushed open the door and stepped into the dark room, letting his eyes adjust. The room was bathed in shadows. It was almost empty, with only a few patrons scattered around a handful of tables, nursing various drinks in various dirty mugs and glasses.

Lee walked to the counter and ordered a butterbeer. He earned a derisive snort from the bartender, but when he put money on the counter, he received a dusty bottle. Under the gazes of the other patrons, he chose a table in the far corner of the pub. There was an uneasy feeling in his guts, and he wondered whether this had been such a good idea.

Less than half a bottle of butterbeer later, someone sat down on the chair opposite of Lee. "Long time no see," the man drawled. He looked familiar, but Lee couldn't place him.

Lee nodded at him without answering. Talking usually got him into trouble, and he wasn't looking for a fight. He wanted to be left alone.

The man - about Lee's age - was not as tall but more broadly built and heavier. He was unperturbed by Lee's silence. "It's rare to see one of you come to this side of town. What's the occasion? Did your mummy throw you out?"

Lee bit his lip, but in the end, he couldn't help himself. He took a swig of his beer and leaned back in his chair. "Are you projecting? Is your little heart hurting because you can't show your face in the daylight without people sicking up all over your boots?"

The man got up - had he played Quidditch at Hogwarts? - turned his chair around and sat back down, straddling the seat with his elbows propped up on the backrest. He grinned. "I've dreamed of meeting you alone somewhere in the dark. It's like a late birthday present."

Lee leaned forward and cocked his head. Suppressed anger replaced unease; it was sensing an outlet. "I hear that often. I like it better when the blokes that dream about me are a bit more appealing, but there you go." Lee widened his eyes with feigned curiosity. "Did you touch yourself? Did you come all over yourself when you thought about me?" His voice had gone from neutral to bitingly sarcastic. "Did you try to suck your own cock because no one else would do it? Did you use your stunted magic to make a hole in the mattress so you-"

He never finished the sentence, and he never saw the blow coming. The dirty fist hit his jaw with a sickening crunch. Lee saw stars and heard odd noises, and he sluggishly gathered his wits to react. A stunning spell followed too soon and prevented him from launching himself at the other man. He'd aimed for his throat, but Lee was frozen mid movement, his jaw throbbing viciously as he was suspended somewhere between sitting and standing and jumping over the table. His eyes watered, and now that he'd been hit full force, he could appreciate just how much George must have pulled the punch a few days earlier.

Lee stared through open eyes at the ugly face grinning back at him. The man didn't move. He must have been stunned as well.

Lee's field of vision was limited. So when someone started to levitate him outside, he only guessed that it was the bartender. Very efficient, he had to admit. There was a reassuring routine in the way the situation was handled. He was dropped on the ground, the hard stones bruising him as he couldn't use his hands or legs to soften the fall.

"Don't come back," the bartender said before he lifted the spell. "Next time, I'll let Flint have his fun."

Lee clutched his jaw and his hip that hadn't liked being dumped. " _Flint_ ," he repeated and started to laugh despite his aching jaw as things fell into place. "He's still sore because of what I said during Quidditch games at Hogwarts?" Lee was caught in fits of hysterical laughter. "He _does_ have a thing for me."

"You better go now, boy. This isn't a safe place for you." The bartender spat on the ground, a few inches from Lee's head. It would have been humiliating if Lee had found a second to care. He was busy laughing, aching and struggling to his feet.

One apparition stop later, Lee fell onto his own bed in his own tiny flat and crawled under the covers without taking off his boots. There had been some potion left from St. Mungo's and he'd gratefully used it. The metallic taste in his mouth worried him only on a subconscious level; if any bones were broken, they'd have to wait. It was barely noon, but Lee was tired and wanted to sleep. If possible, for at least a week.

The last thought before blackness covered his senses was directed at Fred. Lee apologised for not punching back yet again.

*

"I thought you moved in," George said. His voice was loud and startling in the small room that had been blissfully quiet before the intruding sound of apparition.

"I thought my mere presence annoys you," Lee mumbled. The pillow was pulled over his head, hiding his face from George's view.

"It does. But I got used to it, and I'm not good with change. Especially because you left without a word and were gone the whole day." There was a pause, and then the mattress moved as George sat down. "What's with your voice? Are you drunk?"

Lee shook his head. Alcohol wasn't the reason that he was slurring the words. The potion had worn off, and his jaw was back to throbbing and hurting. "'m okay."

George pulled away the pillow, and Lee groaned at the sudden burst of bright afternoon light. The sun was low on the horizon and shone through the window into Lee's face.

"Either you have a new job and work as a punching ball, or you found someone else to annoy," George said. "What the hell happened to your face?"

"There was someone who's uglier than me. He didn't like that and decided to take action. Looks good?" Lee squinted up at George and saw him frowning.

"If you were a girl, I'd have to go and kill them now. How's that with blokes? Do I have an excuse to unleash ungodly anger on someone? I could do with an explosion."

Lee sighed as gentle fingers pushed back his hair and traced his jaw. "Since when do you need an excuse to blow up Marcus Flint?" he asked

"You messed with Flint?" George spoke a charm and tingling warmth washed over Lee's face. "I'd say you've had it coming," he said after the incantation.

Lee stuck out his tongue in the only defiant gesture he could manage at that moment. "He messed with me. Not the other way round."

George snorted. "I'm sure you didn't say a word that could have angered him. He walked up to you in the middle of Diagon Alley and punched you in the face out of nowhere."

Lee nodded. "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

"You're just as messed up as I am," George said. "So if you're looking for an excuse to run out on me, don't use that one."

"I'm not running out on you."

George gave him a look that said he knew better. "You disappeared just when I thought that maybe, just maybe there's a chance things might get better. You panicked, put your tail between your legs and ran." George sounded bitter.

"What's with that holier-than-thou attitude?" Lee asked, scowling.

"What's with your hypocrisy?" George countered.

"I'm not hypocritical," Lee said.

George gripped Lee's upper arm and hauled him up. "Then come home with me and start talking. You're so repressed, I'm constipated just from looking at you."

Lee put an arm around George's shoulders for support. "You're constipated because you insist on cooking, mate."

*

They talked that night.

Maybe for the first time, they didn't pretend and didn't try to avoid or distract or gloss over. It hurt. It was agonizing to see each other hurt.

Lee talked about his father - and about his mother. George talked about Fred. Both talked about expectations. They talked about the future, and about plans and wishes.

They didn't drink anything more potent than butterbeer. From late afternoon until early morning the next day, they ate their way through take away fish and chips, homemade soup, crisps, a bowl full of apples, a bag of Molly's biscuits, rolls and jam, a tin of cold beans, and George's last Hippie Hair Hazels.

There was laughter and tears and sadness, and a couple of times it was all of them rolled into one big emotion.

There was no desperation. That one had got lost somewhere along the way. Lee didn't know where, and he wasn't going to go back to find it.

They talked about drinking and falling, and at one point, they both undressed and counted scars and cuts and bruises.

They found out that rainbow coloured pubes looked better on Lee, and George remembered that he and Fred had talked about adjusting the ingredients so one could choose if they wanted to have all their hair changed or just parts of it. George made a note on his empty piece of parchment. Lee saw his hand shake as he wrote.

They made rules.

"I don't follow rules," George said at first.

"I'll make sure you will," Lee answered

"How?"

Lee ticked off on his fingers. "Encouragement, setting a good example, threatening to owl your mother, owling your mother and," he waggled his eyebrows, "adequate rewards."

"I'm in," George said with a grin, and it was settled.

One rule said that in any kind of emergency situation, they were to alert the other - especially when Inferi were involved. Another rule said that drinking and potions were to be used for fun and never to forget. A third one prohibited solitary trips to Knockturn Alley. There was a rule about not avoiding family - unless it was really necessary for one's sanity.

There was a rule about remembering and dealing.

They talked about what was happening between them, while refusing to define what exactly it was. They decided not to tell others what had happened during the weeks in the fantasy and the time afterwards. It was hard enough to live up to their own expectations and answer their own questions. They were moving on paper-thin ice and living within macramé walls. There was no tolerance for more pressure.

When they started talking in the evening, Lee sat on the couch and George on the floor with his legs under the table. When they were done in the morning, they were piled on top of another in a bed of crisp crumbs and apple stains, exhaustion painting deep shadows on their faces. Lee's head lay on George's bare chest, and he was listening to the soothing heartbeat.

There was silence.

Lee's thoughts circled around the topic they hadn't touched yet. It was there with them; it had been there for days.

"You know what happened," he eventually said.

"When?" George asked.

"When we got lost." Lee was tracing circles on George's chest, connecting freckles with invisible lines.

"I don't _know_ ," George said. "I suspect."

"You don't think it was a memory that took over, like you thought at first." Lee was talking slowly and quietly, almost as if to himself.

"No."

"You don't think it was a potion gone wrong."

"I could brew that potion with my eyes closed, hanging from the ceiling and Snape shrieking at me," George said.

"You don't think anyone messed with the potion," Lee went on.

There was silence.

"Anyone who came into the shop and holds a grudge or something," Lee clarified.

"No," George said, "Nothing of that kind. The wards would have told me."

Lee nodded and closed his eyes, tilting his head so he could smell George's skin. "Logically, nothing should have gone wrong. The potion was sound, the magic was sound, no stray memories, no human interference."

"You said it," George confirmed.

"The question is, what - or who - would be insane enough to barge into two people's minds when they are lost in a reality that doesn't exist, keep them there, make them walk through half the country, chase them with invisible monsters, provide food and shelter, and only let them home when they blow things up and are on the edge of their sanity?"

George put his hand in Lee's hair playing with it, tangling and twirling it around his fingers. "That's a good question."

"It would have to be something - or someone - who can mess with reality. Someone with a purpose who wants to achieve something." Lee let out a breath before he continued. "A nutter who thinks the world belongs to him; someone who doesn't care about the laws of physics or magic, who thinks his good intentions are excuse enough to do whatever he wants."

There was a smile in George's voice as he said, "That sounds about right."

Lee smiled as well, with his lips against George's skin, tightening his arms that were wrapped around George's waist. "It would be someone who can figure out how to break the rules, and who'd laugh while doing so."

George swallowed. "Yes," he said. "He'd laugh."

*

  
_"... therefore the world will be divided in Life and in Death.  
No soul staying in these halls shall touch the other side of the veil.  
It remains seen but untainted; it is known but never experienced.  
Once you are here, you shall never go back.  
For soon, the Living will follow the Dead.  
They will not be lost. They will not be alone._

This has been the law since the beginning of time.  
Few dare to break it."

*

The End


End file.
